


The Chaser I Seek

by SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M, HP AU, Head Boy, Head Girl, TGS HP AU, prefects
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:04:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 79,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash/pseuds/SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash
Summary: Muggle-born Anne Wheeler is thrilled when she receives her Head Girl badge in the mail the summer before her final year at Hogwarts, and so is Pureblooded Phillip Carlyle when he discovers he is to be Head Boy. Neither Phillip or Anne knows much about the other, except for what they have learned from afar. Phillip has been watching from the Slytherin side of the stands for years as Anne leads the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team to victory after victory. Anne, on the other hand, has listened to the whispers about the Carlyle family and their obsession with Pureblood lineage, and she knows along with the rest of the school that the Carlyles are instrumental in Voldemort's slowly gaining success.Neither is prepared to be jarringly thrown together their very first day by a food-fight blown out of proportion.As both students struggle to balance new responsibilities, they will begin to see new sides to one another-- sides that Phillip has been taught never to look for, and sides that Anne is not ready to explore. But with the wizarding world taking new steps every day towards war, Hogwarts must cling to unity stronger than ever... Especially the two students who are the face of it all.





	1. The Battlefield

**Author's Note:**

  * For [one_way_ride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_way_ride/gifts).



**[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD) **

**Song of the Chapter: "[Start a War](https://open.spotify.com/track/7pqZZcz4K6Oitb9G8hXJUG)" by Klergy and Valerie Broussard**

* * *

 Anne had been hoping for a memorable first day as Head Girl, but now she was wondering if she should have been a tad more specific.

Things had started out fine. Perfect, even, which is probably why the universe decided to deal Anne the disastrous scenario that followed. On the train, she had arrived early enough to meet all of the prefects, and so she had begun to divide the job of monitoring the various cars among everyone. By the time everybody was there, there was a set plan on how they were going to approach it, and it was being carried out perfectly. Phillip Carlyle, the Head Boy, had arrived about ten minutes into the planning. This had been slightly concerning for Anne, who had only communicated with her partner in stiff, unsure letters of congratulations over the summer. Neither seemed able to find the right words all summer. She supposed it was natural, seeing as they had never interacted before. The two of them had classes together, yes, being two of the brightest students in the school. But with advanced classes focused heavily on independent study and neither knew the other well enough to pair up for the few projects they were assigned. 

That was the least of her worries, though she tried not to think about it. The Carlyle family had a reputation, and it was not one that painted a hopeful picture of Phillip's respect for a Muggle-born. The past few years had seen a palpable increase in the tension between Muggle-borns and Pureblooded wizards as You-Know-Who grew more and more powerful. Not all Purebloods held the supremacist attitude towards Muggles, of course. But the Carlyles were one of the most notorious families for this attitude and had been for generations, and Phillip Carlyle was the only heir to this legacy of hatred in a time when such superiority was thriving. The thought of what might happen while they were forced to work side-by-side had caused her more sleepless nights than she cared to admit. 

However, Phillip's arrival on the train had brought no ominous thunder or sudden chill, so that had been a plus. 

Really, Phillip was nothing but supportive of the orders Anne had given. He assumed the role of enforcing her plans rather than trying to make his own, which Anne discovered when she heard him instructing some of the new Fifth Year Prefects.

"She's the one running the show right now," he had informed them, and there was no malice or sarcasm in his voice as he said it. "That's good for you, because she's going to give you a little part of the plan to work with. If you do your job well, then everyone else will be able to do theirs, and we'll be able to get this train to the station without burning it down."

The two Fifth Year girls he had been speaking to had burst into giggles at that, but Anne had found herself feeling just the slightest bit flattered. She had considered going over to greet him, maybe thank him in a professional manner, but it was at that moment that a Third Year boy burst into the compartment, saying, "Umm... So, we were just sitting there, right, and then the seat started smoking, and we don't know how it happened, but there's a small hole burned in-"

"How small is 'small?'"

"I dunno, I mean, most of the seat is gone, but-" 

Neither had spoken to the other after that, for as the Prefects began to do their jobs, various situations arose that demanded each of their separate attentions. This was a development that Anne did not mind, and she was happy to keep busy on the ride to the castle. By the time that the Hogwarts Express had pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Anne had successfully handled a game of Exploding Snap gone wrong, a misfired charm that caused the snack trolley to overturn, and a mess made of a pair of robes during a game of Gobstones. As she watched the students leave the Express, Anne was aware of the fact that her face was flushed and her curls were escaping her buns in wisps. But she also felt proud, like she was beginning to live up to the shiny badge pinned to the front of her worn Ravenclaw robes that were a few inches too short. 

It did irk her slightly that Phillip Carlyle looked as unruffled as ever from where he stood across from her, making sure that all of the students made their way out. 

After that, things were a blur. Anne and the Carlyle boy were tasked with making sure that students knew where to assume their seats since Professor Lutz was unable to do so while she was tending to the First Years. After the majority of the students were seated, Anne made her way to the Head Table to ask any of the professors what they should be doing next.

"Excuse me," she called to the nearest teacher, the blonde Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Professor Barnum glanced over at Anne with a kind eyebrow raised. "Is there anything else that we can do, Professor?" Anne queried, hopeful. She needed something to busy herself with, or else she was fairly sure her energy would fall flat. 

Professor Barnum hummed softly, appearing to think. "Erm... I don't think so, no," she replied, smiling apologetically as she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "But I am sure that Phineas said something about the Sorting starting soon. You two have done more than enough for now, I think, so you can go enjoy the festivities with the rest of us."

Anne nodded, offering the professor a polite smile that hid her disappointment. "Thank you, Ma'am," she murmured, inclining her head respectfully. She was fairly sure that she felt Professor Barnum's motherly gaze upon her back as she weaved between students on the way back to the Ravenclaw side of the Great Hall.

As Anne left the table, she saw that Carlyle had already taken this advice. He was seated in the middle of a group of affluent Slytherin students, and he was laughing at something the brunette girl across from him had said. It did not set in until that moment that Anne did not have anyone to sit with now that W.D. had graduated.

Her brother was working in the Three Broomsticks in order to support them, and Anne knew about the second job that he was hiding. She had noticed the owls coming at odd hours of the night to their tiny flat in Hogsmeade, and she had even managed to sneak one out of the trash, from which she deduced that he was doing some translation of Runes for scholars in Albania. Anne's heart ached that her brother, a brilliant Runes translator who could have found a prestigious job anywhere in the world, was slaving away at a pub for her sake every day. When she graduated, Anne was determined to pick up and leave to start a new life with W.D. They would go somewhere, anywhere, and Anne would get a job researching advanced potions until she was accepted by some major Quidditch team. But until then, Anne no longer had anyone to sit with. 

She took a spot at the very end of the Ravenclaw table where no one else sat, fiddling with the napkin on the table absently. She could feel eyes on her, now that she was Head Girl... And she knew those eyes came along with whispers. They did not linger too long, as people had better things to talk about, but she still looked down at the hem of her threadbare sleeve to avoid seeing the brief glances. Anne had never been particularly popular. People knew she was brilliant, they knew that she was one of the best Chasers that Hogwarts had seen for decades, maybe even a century. But for as many acquaintances as Anne had, her dedication to her schoolwork and Quidditch performance did not leave much room for any real friends.

 A few moments later, an ample distraction came to turn any unwanted attention away from Anne. Headmaster Barnum rose, and with a wave of his wand, he magicked away the tables. The Headmaster's skinny, slightly mousy appearance was deceiving, for this man was a master of the classes of illusion and enchantment. He was renowned for it in many circles, and Anne was fascinated by the slight flair for the dramatic the man had. She had always been attentive to his words, respecting the air of mystery that clung to him like cobwebs. 

The Sorting commenced thereafter. It was a short one, with a particularly small incoming Year. However, there was a noticeable disturbance throughout the ceremony. Anne noticed almost immediately that whenever a surname that was well-known and respected in the magical community was announced, it was greeted with full applause. There were several surnames, however, that were known to be traditionally common in Muggle communities. The cheering following these names was weakened as if at least a third of the students had dropped out. Anne's eyes narrowed, and as soon as any student with a name such as her own was announced, she could be observed to be cheering twice as loud as normal. Several of the teachers picked up on the incident as well, and Anne was fairly sure she caught a glimpse of Professor Barnum and her husband murmuring  _sonorous_ charms so that the cheering of the teachers was magnified. 

By the time that Zabel, Francine had been sorted into Hufflepuff, Headmaster Barnum had summoned the tables again out of thin air. Gasps filled the room from the First year students who had not been there to see it the first time, and Anne felt a little smile play with her lips. The Headmaster gave a quick speech, and then with a flourish of his wand, the platters before the students all became filled with enough food to feed a small army. Chatter rose to mingle with the cozy sounds of clattering forks and knives, and Anne felt herself visibly relax. Maybe she wasn't exactly a part of it, but this was the part of Hogwarts that she loved. Moments like these, where so many students just existed together, made it feel like home. 

Of course, the day chose that moment to turn for the worse. 

Anne had only just begun to pour a goblet of pumpkin juice when she first noticed the disturbance, coming from one end of the Slytherin table. Three boys, Fourth Year students, Anne guessed, were using their wands to send little chunks of candied carrots flying to hit a pair of Muggle-born twins across the aisle. Anne set down her goblet, preparing to rise to call the students out. Before she had managed to extricate herself from the table, however, one of the twins had turned and fixed the Fourth Years with a smirk. Anne hastened her efforts to reach the students, but it was much too late. An entire bowl of steak and kidney pudding flew across the aisle to splatter the three students and anyone in the immediate vicinity. For a moment, all conversation fell silent, and there was a moment of hollow space. 

And then, the shouting began. 

Wands flew out, and Anne fumbled to keep her own in her hand as she desperately scanned the room, trying to see where she was most needed. Anne's ears were overloaded with a tangle of layering spells, most of which sent various trays and plates of food zooming through the air. At first, Anne struggled to appeal to the casters of the spells, but there were far too many. She cursed under her breath as she began to nonverbally cast as many shield charms as she physically could. Invisible barriers sprung up between the attackers and their intended victims, and they effectively stopped the food from flying any further. Unfortunately, this mostly resulted in whatever was being thrown being propelled back towards the attacker, spreading still more food everywhere. 

A plate of treacle tart whizzed past Anne's head, and she narrowly dodged it only to be met with a full tureen of chowder. The soup drenched her and a pair of First Years from head to toe, and a shocked gasp left the lips of the children behind her. Anne winced and quickly darted back, gripping them by the hands and pulling them under the table. "Stay here until it's over," she instructed the shell-shocked girls before sliding out from underneath again, leaving them gaping at her retreating form. 

Anne fought to move forward, doing as much damage control as she possibly could. Dodging food became completely impossible at this point. What might have been an entire ham narrowly missed Anne's head, shoving her hair out of her bun and getting the soaked curls everywhere. Several pastries were hurled at Anne and smashed into her shoulder, her arm, and her chest, smearing all down the front of her robes. A bowl of lukewarm porridge dumped over her head, and the Head Girl fought to wipe it out of her eyes as she forged forward. All she could do, at the moment, was vanish whatever flying food she could hit. Luckily, Anne had fairly decent aim, and she managed to completely remove several large platters of turkey, ham, and chicken from the air before they could actually hurt someone. Through all of the fighting, she could barely tell who was who, until she stumbled into a form slightly taller than her. Anne whirled around with her wand out, ready to stun the perpetrator if need be.

Instead, she found herself coming face-to-face with a thoroughly flustered Phillip Carlyle. 

He looked absolutely ridiculous, with what must have been half of a pudding plastered to his hair and the side of his face. What Anne guessed was chocolate syrup dripped down the side of his face, and what had been his pristine, brand-new robes were covered with mashed potatoes and pumpkin juice. There was a determination in his eyes that was rather comical, seeing as his normally perfect hair was in a cowlick that looked like something from a cartoon. However, as he raised her wand at her, she did not find it hard to believe that he might stun her. 

"Carlyle!" she called, over all the noise. "Stop, it's Anne Wheeler!" He froze for a moment, blinking, and Anne remembered that she probably looked equally ridiculous. But then, relief spread over his food-covered features. 

"Thank Merlin," he exclaimed, gripping her by the arm and yanking her to the side to avoid a flying sponge cake. "Are you the one who's been vanishing things?" 

"Yes," she called, tugging her arm free from his grip immediately. She did not have time to be flustered by the sudden, unwanted contact. "This needs to stop, now, before it gets out of hand!"

"I think it's a bit late for that, as I think I just saw Headmaster Barnum quite literally pie Professor Barnum in the face." 

"Are you certain-" 

"I would testify to it before Wizengamot." 

Anne gritted her teeth and glared at nothing in particular. "Maybe if we can get to Professor Lutz, then-" 

Behind them, there was a massive boom, and Anne cried out. Carylye was touching her again, pulling her to the ground with him. She landed sprawled rather uncomfortably on his solid chest, and quickly Anne moved to haul herself off of him. As if that was not enough, a bowl of tuna salad shot by them, effectively covering the both of them in creamy goop. 

"Sorry, sorry," Carlyle panted, looking up at her with blue eyes that were as wide as the saucer that broke against the wall behind them. 

"What was-" 

Just then, a rancid smell filled the hall, and Anne clapped a hand over her mouth and nose. Carlyle did the same, not before Anne caught a glimpse of a gag. 

"Dugbob," Carlyle's muffled voice reached her ears as the disgusted coughing of many students filled the hall. Anne felt her level of frustration skyrocket. 

" _Dungbombs_?" she spat. "For the love of all things holy, who the-" 

Another boom, and this time Anne was ready. She ducked her head under the nearest table, but Carlyle was not quick enough. Mud flew through the air, hitting him square in the face. Immediately, the Head Boy turned and began to cough, attempting to get out whatever he could from his mouth. Anne stood, trying to locate where the Dungbombs were being set off. The smell was crippling, but she kept a hand clapped over her mouth as she struggled to make her way forward, leaving Carlyle behind. Another detonated, and Anne felt the mud splatter her, too. But she managed to keep it out of her eyes, and that was all that she needed. She pushed her way forward, and through the cloud of brown smoke, she spotted the Fifth Year who was detonating them crouching over another one. 

" _Evanesco!"_ Anne shouted, taking aim at the bomb. The boom still set off, but only a little bit more filth flew through the air like projectiles. The rest vanished, along with the bomb, and Anne aimed a silent  _'Petrificus totalus!'_ at the single figure she could see in the center of all of the smoke. She heard a crack that meant that the charm had met the intended target, and then, in the haze of the smoke and the break in the fight, Carlyle climbed onto the Slytherin table, almost slipping in the spill of soup on top of it.  Anne pointed her wand at him, murmuring a breathless  _"Sonorous."_

And then, above everything, Carlyle's voice boomed, "The next student to use food as a projectile will personally volunteer to work in the kitchens for two weeks,  _after_ they clean all of this up!" 

The hall was silent, and Anne let out a soft groan as she leaned against the table at his feet. No noise could be heard except for the labored breath of the students and the dripping of food off of robes. Carlyle let out a massive breath of relief as Anne rubbed her temples and stared at the growing pile of porridge and tuna fish chunks at her feet. 

Anne was fairly certain she would not be forgetting her first day as Head Girl anytime soon. 


	2. The Heads of Schools' Bathroom

**[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD) **

**Song of the Chapter: "[Radioactive](https://open.spotify.com/track/29rjRrsPg5Iwr9k6QX8Oxq)" by Marina and the Diamonds**

* * *

 Cleanup after the fight took far less time than Phillip expected, to his immense relief. 

After what felt like a battle to contain the damage spread by flying food, Phillip's brain felt as mushy as the porridge that was currently dripping down the left side of Anne Wheeler's face. The two stayed longer than any of the other students, casting whatever incantations they could to clear up the Great Hall. Most of the teachers stayed as well, although the Professors Barnum were seen leaving the room in an intense argument that could be inferred to be over the pie incident. No one stopped them, and Phillip privately thought it was because the DADA instructor looked absolutely murderous as she talked to her husband and if anyone intervened there was no guarantee that she would not hex them into oblivion. 

The remaining wizards and witches started by vanishing the massive amount of food. The problem with a food fight in the Great Hall was that the various platters and bowls automatically refilled themselves, so the volume of food that needed vanishing was overwhelming. After they had managed to remove all traces of food, they were faced with the task of repairing all damaged objects. By the time that they were finished, there were only a handful of teachers who had remained; most of the others had either gone to manage the disciplinary aspect of the incident or to clean up. When they finally finished at half-past eleven, there were maybe seven or eight teachers left.

Anne Wheeler had stayed as well, working silently. Phillip was still not sure exactly what to think about her... It was not as if they had spoken much prior to the vicious battle that they had been caught in. However, regardless of what he thought, she looked exhausted.

She was trying to hide it, but Phillip noted how she walked like she was carrying a heavy load, and how her eyes seemed to struggle to open as the night wore on. She had looked flustered when they had entered the hall at the beginning of the night, but that had been in a good way, a busy way. She always looked like that at her happiest during Quidditch games. This was different, this was pure fatigue. She looked absurd, covered in soup and tuna salad and dried dirt. It was almost as if she had been caught in an explosion in the kitchens. But then, he reasoned, he must look at least equally strange after the fight they had been through. He did not even want to think about what he must have looked like. 

Phillip liked things pristine, filed away, neat. He could already tell that he looked like someone had dragged him backward through someone's picnic. 

Finally, when the last saucer had been repaired, one of the professors turned towards them. "Thank you, Mr. Carlyle and Ms. Wheeler," Professor Yan sighed softly as she wiped a dollop of steak and kidney pudding from her cheek. "Your help really was invaluable. I look forward to seeing the pair of you in the morning." The astronomy professor did not seem as bothered by the late hour, as the rest of them as she strode from the room. Even covered in scraps of dinner, her posture was ramrod straight. 

"Right," Wheeler hummed softly, rubbing absently at one of the many spots of porridge on the side of her face. "Well, I will see you tomorrow, then, to hand out schedules. Good night." She turned to leave, and Phillip looked behind her with a bemused expression. 

"What are you talking about?" he asked her in a surprised voice. "There's a Head Dormitory, remember? That's where the pair of us stay now so that the teachers have an easier time locating us." 

Wheeler stopped in her tracks, seeming to puzzle it over in her sleep-deprived brain. "Right," she muttered. "Right. Um, do you happen to remember where..." 

Her mouth fell open in a yawn, and Phillip nodded, answering the question before she finished it. "Yeah, it's just down the hall behind the third suit of armor. Come on we're both going to the same place anyway." 

Phillip turned and began to walk, and he heard her footsteps squelching slightly behind him. The events of that night were beginning to set in, and his own body was rather sore as well. The walk to the suit of armor seemed much longer than it should have been, a fact that was encouraged by the rather awkward, uncertain silence that had settled between the pair of them. When the reached the armor suit, Phillip reached up and carefully pulled on the third finger of the armor suit's left hand. There was a creaking sound, and then the suit sank into the floor before them to reveal a large set of wooden doors behind it. 

Phillip hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Wheeler. She returned his gaze with a slightly bleary look of expectancy, and so he grasped the handle on the door and pushed it open. 

The room that met them was cozy, there was no denying that. It seemed to be divided into four sections, each with its own color: red, yellow, green, and blue. There was a large, embroidered rug that set the borders on the floor, and then the drastic change in the decoration of each side of the circular room completed the effect. On the red side, there was a roaring fireplace and a pair of comfortable-looking armchairs along with a sofa. The yellow side held many potted plants and a tea table. The green side of the room contained several tables with varying artifacts upon them, including several strange looking magical objects that let out puffs of smoke and whirred mechanically. The wall on the blue side of the room was filled with bookshelves all the way to the ceiling, which must have been forty feet in the air, and it held a table with a tea and coffee pot on top. In the green and blue sections of the room there were a set of desks, clearly meant for the Head Boy and Girl. A stone archway across the room led up a set of stairs where Phillip assumed they would find their dormitories, and a door between the blue and green sections of the room was labeled 'Washroom.' 

The thought that they needed to bathe seemed to occur to both the Head Girl and to Phillip at the same time. Wheeler glanced up at him, and then she moved to begin to examine the various objects in the Ravenclaw section of the room. He blinked several times in her direction, surprised. "What are you doing?" he asked, coming off slightly more gruff than intended thanks to his need for sleep. 

Wheeler glanced back up at him, and her eyes held acceptance. "You want to take a bath before bed, don't you?" she said, answering his question with a question. 

"Well, yes, but... Don't you?" 

"There's only one bathroom," she answered with a matter-of-fact tone. It was as if she expected him to take it without regard for her. He blinked again, trying to figure out exactly what she was thinking. 

"Yes... But I don't want to take it from you," he said slowly. "I mean, I could always go to the Prefect bathroom and you can use this one." 

"That one is all the way across the school," Wheeler replied. "And technically, you would be breaking curfew." 

Phillip winced and ran a hand through his hair. "I mean... I don't really know, but you did as much as I did tonight," he murmured. The awkwardness between the pair of them was thick and heavy, and he was not sure what to do to lift it. He had a shrewd suspicion that his family's reputation might be causing it. The thought sent a pang through his chest, though he was not sure why. Why did he care what Anne Wheeler thought about him? He did not know, but he did, and he did not want her to think he was like the rest of his family. The worst part was that he was not sure that he appeared much different, with his elite group of friends and the time spent out at Hogsmeade spending their parents' money. That had never bothered him before, though...

For some reason that he could not explain, Phillip wanted to prove himself to the Ravenclaw Chaser.

"Well, it isn't as if one of us did more than the other. All I know is that neither of us is using it right now and that we both need to," she muttered tiredly. 

"Well, then, why don't we?" Phillip suggested, trying to keep his voice nonchalant. 

This seemed to catch her off-guard even in her sleep-deprived state, and her chocolate eyes were wide as she looked up at him. "What?" she said slowly, though he was certain she had heard him. 

"If it's anything like the Prefect bathroom, it'll be massive," Phillip pointed out. "And if you won't go first, but I don't want to go first, the only obvious solution is that we go together." 

Wheeler crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Really?" 

"I won't look at you," he said firmly. A little smirk played on his lips. "Unless your problem is that you think that you won't be able to keep your eyes off me, in which case-" 

"W-what?" she stammered, and though she shot him a glare, he thought he could see a little bit of a rosy tint to her cheeks that amused him to no end. "That isn't what I-" 

"It's understandable, I mean, I've got a good figure, and nice-" 

"I really don't want to know how you were planning on finishing that sentence," she interrupted, lifting her chin. "But... Fine. If I catch you looking at me, though, you won't have 'nice' anything for much longer." 

Wheeler brushed past him and pushed open the door to the bathroom, and his playful gaze followed her as she entered the room. Yeah, she looked ridiculous. But then, so did he, and if they were going to be stuck together all year he might as well have fun with it. Not to mention that it was quite entertaining to cross swords with a wit as sharp as hers. 

Phillip stepped into the bathroom, and his eyes widened. The whole room was black marble, from floor to ceiling. It was lit by wall sconces that emitted a warm light, and there was a massive tub in the ground, the same way there was in the Prefect bathroom. This one was deeper, however, and it had steps that led into it. There were tons of faucets, the same way that there were in the Prefect's bathroom, and the exhausted girl looked completely bemused by them. She instead gravitated towards a standing screen that was clearly made to change behind. 

"You can do whatever you want with the water," she mumbled. "I'm going to change. If I see you looking, I'll... Well, normally I would threaten to murder you, but I just don't have the energy tonight, so it would probably just be a pretty nasty hex." With that, Wheeler was gone behind the screen, leaving an amused Phillip to tend to the water. 

While Wheeler changed, Phillip began to fiddle around with the different taps. He particularly liked one that spewed water with a thick layer of soft foam on top, and so he overwhelmingly allowed that to fill the water. Despite his comments about her wandering eyes, he was a gentleman, and he did want to respect her modesty-- especially after seeing proof of how well she could aim a spell earlier that night. The tub filled much more quickly than any Muggle tub would have, and he turned to face the screen to say, "It's full-" 

He had just caught her peering out from behind the screen, wrapped in a white robe. Her face flushed, and she quickly darted back behind the screen. "O-okay. I'm coming out, stay turned around until I tell you," she fumbled for words, and Phillip obediently turned around as well. He was glad for the excuse because for some reason his face was warm. It was probably from the water, but he did not want her to think it was for any other reason. 

Phillip stayed turned around, and he heard the sound of bare feet on the marble floor. There was the sound of cloth dropping to the ground, and then the water rippled and there was a slight splash. A long sigh of bliss left her lips, and his face heated up again. Maybe this was not such a good idea... No, what was he thinking? This really wasn't a big deal. They both looked terrible anyway, he was just tired. "Alright," she murmured, and he heard the sound of her moving to the far end of the tub. 

Slowly, Phillip turned. He appeared slightly amused as he looked at her. The girl was up to her chin in white foam and had not had a chance to go under and clear her skin and her hair yet. "Are you standing on tiptoes?" 

"Shut up," she mumbled, turning away from him. "Get changed, I'm not looking." 

The smirk remained still as Phillip stepped behind the screen. He began to work on removing his robes, which was harder work than usual since they were plastered to his body with food. He caught a glimpse of Wheeler's ragged robes peeking out of a wicker clothing hamper, and a slight twinge of curiosity grabbed hold of him. She had been on his radar for a while, and that had been part of the reason. Often, several of the girls who flitted in and out of his group would mention her robes when she was brought up. For years, they had always been ill-fitting and old. It wasn't his business, but as Phillip threw his own robes over hers, he had to wonder why. 

"Okay, stay turned around," he called as he wrapped a robe around himself. He padded across the marble floor, each step warm on his bare feet thanks to the steam from the hot water. He could see her figure on the other end of the tub, still several yards away. She appeared to be washing her shoulders and her upper back... He quickly looked away from her and tugged the robe from his shoulders. As he stepped into the pool, he let out his own soft moan of relief. Against his aching muscles, the hot water felt like heaven. 

"It's amazing, isn't it?" she breathed softly. He glanced across the steaming water, where he could make out the figure of Anne Wheeler. She ducked under the water, and when she came up, her dark curls were soaked and plastered to her face. He hid a smile and tipped his head back, turning his back to her again as he focused on washing his hair. This proved to be more difficult than expected since there was a fair amount of dried food in it. It took what must have been a good six or seven minutes to finish before he could move on to scrubbing down, and he heard similarly frustrated mutterings from across the tub. If he was having trouble with his hair, he had no idea how she was managing. 

Now that they were both in the pool, Phillip decided it was not so terribly awkward. In fact, it was kind of relaxing to hear the splashing across the pool. The soaps that were perched on ledges on the side of the pool caused Phillip to become slightly more sleepy, with the scent of pine making him drowsy. It was the same shampoo, he realized, that his uncle had bought him several years ago. It smelled of balsam and sandalwood, and the scent reminded him of one of his few happy memories at home. Based on the deep breaths that Phillip heard her taking, he assumed that there was some sort of enchantment on the room to alter soaps and the like to the preference of the person using them. 

After he had finally managed to free himself of the last traces of the food fight, Phillip glanced across the pool. "I'm finished," he called. "Are you?" 

"Mhmm," Wheeler murmured, coming slightly closer to his side of the pool. "I think so, yeah."

Upon catching a glimpse of her, however, Phillip spotted a spot of dried porridge in her hair that she had missed among her many curls. "Oh, wait," he called. "You still have a little in your hair... By your ear." The shorter girl moved her fingers to her hair, but it was the side opposite of the leftover food. Phillip shook his head and gestured to the approximate position on his head, but with the sheer amount of wet curls that Wheeler had, she continued to miss it. Phillip let out a quick breath. "Here... How about I get it for you?" he suggested. She stiffened, but he quickly interjected, "No, I mean- I can reach it from behind you, how about that? I'll just get it out, and then we can be done." 

She hesitated, touching her hair one last time. She gave him a dubious glance, and he did not know why he seemed to be holding his breath. "Fine, whatever," she mumbled, turning her back to him. "I just need sleep." 

Phillip took a deep breath and crossed the pool, careful as he came up behind her not to touch Wheeler anywhere by accident. He could not see anything, but now that he stood behind her, he could smell her shampoo... It was something flowery, Lilacs, maybe. Whatever it was, he had to stop himself from inhaling deep breaths. Hesitantly, he raised a hand to her hair. She was stiff, and all her muscles seemed to tense when he touched her. Phillip steadied his hand and carefully picked up the small, offending section. Between his fingers, her loose curls were soft. He had to stop himself from running his hand through her long hair, and instead quickly plucked out the last residue of the food fight. Phillip returned his hand to his side quickly, resisting the urge to hold on any longer than he was supposed to. He did not know why he wanted to... But her hair was beautiful, and it smelled amazing. 

 _What the **hell**_ ** _,_** _Phillip?_ he scolded himself, slightly dazed. 

At that moment, Wheeler moved to turn around, perhaps having forgotten how close he was behind her. She slipped on the floor of the tub, and their hips knocked softly underwater, her smooth skin against his, and he immediately jumped backward. 

"Merlin, I'm sorry, Wheeler," he stammered, moving back and quickly turning around. "I didn't mean-" 

"No, I just, I slipped," she quickly muttered, and he was extremely grateful that she could not see his face. Why was he this flustered? 

"Right. Um, so I'll get out first, and then I can just grab the robe and go to my dorm, and then you have the bathroom to yourself," he quickly launched onto whatever topic he could. 

"Yeah, yeah, and I'll get out so you can brush your teeth and stuff," Wheeler latched onto the train of thought. "I don't take long anyway." 

"Okay," he said slowly. "Well... I'm getting out, alright?" 

The water rippled, and he assumed she had nodded. Phillip quickly began to climb out, picking up the robe from the floor and wrapping it around his figure. "Well, goodnight," he called as he paused at the door, hoping he did not sound as awkward and uncertain as the words felt. 

"'Night," she muttered, and he could not discern anything from her tone. 

As soon as Phillip stepped out of the bathroom and into their Common Room, he ran a hand through his damp hair in a confused agitation. What in Merlin's name had happened in there? 

He chewed his lip, turning the thought over in his mind and then batting it aside. No. He did not have the brainpower or the energy to be battling through that question tonight, and they had a big day the next morning, anyway. So, after pinching the bridge of his nose slightly and taking a deep breath, Phillip looked up and walked to his room, away from the bathroom and the girl with the lilac hair. 


	3. The Package

When the Head Girl woke in the morning to the shrieking of her alarm clock, it was with a foggy head and a heavy body. She most definitely had not gotten enough sleep after the ordeal yesterday, even though doubling up on the baths had saved her a bit of time. The sleepiness did not help her to remember, as she sat up, exactly where she was. The room which Anne had found waiting for her was lovely, with pale blue walls and Ravenclaw hangings as well as a window that looked out over the grounds. There were several bookshelves and a closet made of the same dark wood as her four-poster, and the room was furnished in the timelessly beautiful way the rest of the castle was.

After a moment, her foggy head remembered that this was her room now, not a dormitory with four other girls she barely knew.  She could only assume that Carlyle's room was sporting green and silver rather than blue and bronze, and the magic surrounding the room interested her.

As she peeled herself up from her bed, Anne stifled a yawn irritably with her fist and dragged herself to her school trunk. There, she began rifling through her meager belongings for a pair of socks. With the hand that was not in her trunk, she gripped her wand and mumbled,  _"Accio robes."_ She pulled on a pair of worn knee-highs sporting the Ravenclaw colors as her robes flew into the room, nearly hitting her in the face. They were filthy, and Anne made a face at them as she began to murmur a few incantations, siphoning off the food and laundering them. 

The problem with Anne's robes was that, frankly, they could only handle so much magic. She only had the one pair and she was as careful with them as possible, but she could only mend them so many times before the fabric would eventually not be able to take any more. It was already starting to show; well, it had started showing a long while ago. The material was frayed and faded and the hem was a few inches too high no matter what spells she threw at them. 

When the robes were presentable and clean, Anne pulled them on and then put on her shoes beneath them. She glanced into the long looking glass that the room had provided and found the reflection of a girl who was clothed in a hygienic and modest manner, but one that also appeared shabby and worn. Anne let out a soft breath, knowing this was the best it was going to get. 

Anne quickly pinned her hair up into the bun that she normally wore, hesitating for a moment as her fingers raked through her curls. For a moment, she remembered the strange events of the night before, in their bathroom. Carlyle had helped her remove a bit of food left in her hair, and his fingers had lingered in her curls for just a moment longer than she expected. She had been able to smell the scent of pine, and his hands in her hair had felt almost... Good. 

And then, like the idiot she was, Anne had panicked and turned, bumping into him without clothes on. If he had not thought her to be a mess before then, he surely did now. It did not help that he seemed so intent upon engaging in banter with her. The Head Girl was competitive by nature and determined to have the last word, so she could not very well back down from his attempts to catch her off-guard. No matter what she did, it somehow seemed to amuse him... It drove her insane, and it had only been happening for a day. 

When Anne realized she had been staring into the mirror thinking about Carlyle, she quickly finished pinning her hair into the bun and turned away from the glass.

The Head Girl picked up her school bag and slid the comfortable black satchel over her shoulder before exiting the dorm. Mercifully, the hallway outside the room was empty. All Anne needed to do was brush her teeth, and then she could be off. She quickly crossed the Common Room and pushed open the bathroom door, only to find the was not alone. 

Carlyle was standing at the faucet and mirror all the way across the bathroom, styling his hair meticulously. He was clothed in a white t-shirt and a loose pair of pajama pants, and Anne was careful not to look at him for too long. She took a deep breath and made sure to remain in complete control of her face as she crossed the bathroom. He glanced up at her, muttering, "'Morning," and then returned to styling his hair into the same style he always wore. 

Anne hummed in response, moving to the counter where she had left her toiletry bag the night before. She unzipped it and pulled out her toothbrush, running it under warm water in the second of two sinks. She began to brush her teeth, and as she did so, she fiddled with a loose curl that had escaped her bun. For some reason, she could not stop thinking about the events of the night before. It was foolish, she knew. There was nothing between them, and they barely knew one another. But they would not leave her mind no matter how hard she tried to make them. 

When the Head Girl had finished brushing her teeth, she rinsed the brush under the water and relished the minty taste in her mouth. She was zipping up her bag when he said, "Wheeler?" 

Anne looked up, a forced impassive expression spreading across her features. "Yes?" 

"Unless you'd like another display of all this-" the smirking Slytherin gestured to his chest, and Anne felt her eyes widen in disbelief. "-I suggest you hurry up." 

She blinked several times at him, caught off-balance. Finally, she managed to say, "Yeah, I don't fancy another look at your love handles, so I think I'll pass." She was such a bloody liar, and they both knew it. He was fit, which was not fair because the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain worked constantly on her broom to remain in shape and he just somehow  _was._

"Keep telling yourself that, Wheeler," Carlyle hummed, and when he looked at her his eyes gleamed with mischief. Anne shot him a look and turned, leaving her toiletry bag on the bathroom counter. She was glad that he could not see her face as she left the bathroom because it was rosy in a way that she loathed fiercely. 

As soon as she left the bathroom, Anne let out an exhale that she prayed he could not hear through the door. She pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment, shaking her head. Their dynamic was strange, and she was not exactly sure what he was to her and vice-versa. But Carlyle certainly seemed to enjoy his attempts to fluster her, and he succeeded more often than she would have liked. Damn him, she decided as she walked to the Ravenclaw side of the room and began to prepare a cup of jasmine tea. 

A few minutes later, when she was pouring her tea into a mug that her brother had bought her for her birthday with money they did not have, she heard the bathroom door open. She did not turn, only set the kettle down and turned with the mug of steaming goodness in her hands. There was no sugar in it; Anne did not want to taste anything but the earthy green tea and the delicate, floral jasmine. She did not mind the bitterness so long as it came with the former. She found herself holding her breath as she heard Carlyle approach, and for a moment she was unsure what he was going to do. A little breath of relief left her lips when she saw he was going to the coffee pot beside her. 

Carlyle glanced down at her straight tea, devoid of milk or sugar, and wrinkled his nose. "Disgusting, Wheeler," he commented, though his voice was relaxed and more playful than unkind. Anne raised an eyebrow and took a deep sip, not breaking eye contact with him as she did so. He wrinkled his nose, but amusement filled his eyes as he looked at her. "Yeah, alright, to each their own," he consented as he turned to the pot. For a moment, the Head Girl leaned against the counter with her tea while he fetched a mug from the shelf above the counter. She figured they might as well go down to the Great Hall together since they had to hand out schedules that morning anyway. The coffee pot was clearly enchanted, as was the kettle; the water took much less time than it did in the Wheeler flat, where the old machines took their sweet time to warm the water. Anne took another sip of tea as Carlye poured himself a cup, adding liberal amounts of cream and sugar both. It was her turn to wrinkle her nose at his beverage choice.

"You're going to get diabetes," she decided as she stood up from the counter and walked to the door without seeing if he was following. 

He was, and when he finished his sip of coffee, he had a mustache from the cream. Anne took pleasure in her decision not to tell him about the cream lining the top of his full lips. "Maybe you're so prickly because you don't take sugar," he decided to himself as he walked beside her. She was having trouble taking him seriously with the mustache.

"I am not prickly," she huffed. "I have a low tolerance for nonsense." 

Carlyle took another sip of his coffee (if it could even be called that), humming happily. "If this is nonsense, then I'll take more, please," he replied, and the two were comfortably silent the rest of the way down the steps to the Great Hall. 

When they entered, Anne was grateful that they were earlier than most of the students. Admittedly, they had a shorter commute than the rest of the students. Still, she liked being early to things. She was never late for anything because it felt like it was giving up control, losing it in a way that everyone would notice. The young witch held the mug of tea close to her chest as she and Carlyle walked down the center of the Hall to the Head Table. There, Professor Lutz was sitting with eyes that looked just as tired as Anne's and Carlyle's own. 

When they approached, the charms professor nodded to herself, approval in her eyes. "There you are," she hummed, and though she did not smile, there was a proud sort of affection in her gaze. "I missed you last night, dealing with the aftermath of all of that, but I was informed by several staff members that you stayed into the night to help. Your actions have been noted. Now, schedules..." The professor raised her wand, and then in an instant, a large mass of scrolls appeared out of thin air. The pile divided itself evenly into two, and then one massive pile of schedules fell into the Head Girl's arms while the other fell into Carlyles. "You have Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, Ms. Wheeler, and I'm going to let you take a wild guess at which schedules I gave you, Carlyle." 

Professor Lutz's eyes came to rest on Carlyle's upper lip, and the head of Gryffindor allowed a little sparkle of mischief to glimmer into her eyes. "I see you decided to make a change, Carlyle. Your mustache might need a bit more grooming than that if you're going to keep it." 

Carlyle's eyes widened, and he turned, struggling to wipe his upper lip with the scrolls in his arms. Lutz gave Anne a knowing look before turning to walk back towards the table, and then the morning was off to a busy start. 

* * *

Passing out the schedules took a great deal longer than it should have, thanks to a mix-up involving a set of First Year triplets. By the time they were done, Anne only had time to scarf down the rest of her tea and then rush to class. Anne was immensely grateful for the fact that most of her classes were spent going over basic etiquette and expectations. Anne was much too tired to deal with anything much more than that, and if she had been given homework, she might have started crying right then and there. 

Anne spent a lot more time than she had expected with younger students. They approached her with questions in the hallway, particularly the First Years. Anne was flattered that they had chosen her to come to and that she was approachable to the younger students of Hogwarts. Though she was desperate to get away from the poverty that she and W.D. were trapped in through hard work, she would miss this castle and its students with her whole heart. She would have to leave, yes... But that did not mean that she would not leave a legacy behind. 

Anne did her best at giving advice, telling the First Years tricks to get around the castle and how to keep from getting stuck in one of the moving staircases or open particularly stubborn doors by sweet-talking them. She made sure that she left them with smiles or looking visibly relieved, and the Ravenclaw tried her best to make sure that they did not think they were inconveniencing her, even if they were. After calming down a particularly panicked second-year student who did not know how to get to the Year Two greenhouse, Anne practically had to sprint to Herbology all the way across the grounds. 

Anne slipped into the greenhouse where the Advanced Herbology class took place just as Professor Stratton called, "Wheeler, Anne." 

"Present," she called breathlessly as the door closed with a thud behind her. Several of the students turned to glance back at her, and Anne heard whispers among the clump of Slytherin students who were gathered at the back corner of the greenhouse next to the Venomous Tentacula. The Head Girl noticed that the group was mostly boys from her year... Ones that she realized had been heavily associated with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, ones she often had in her detention for harassing younger students of Muggle descent. There were a few girls interspersed, many of the prettier ones from her year who came from rich families. And in the far back corner, Anne could see Carlyle, lounging against one of the greenhouse's glass walls as if he owned the place. 

A little pang shot through Anne as she met his gaze, and then she quickly turned away. 

Stratton was going on about protocol regarding the different lethal plants of the greenhouse, and Anne distanced herself slightly from the discussion. She had a way with plants and potions that had been noted by most of her professors, and her instincts generally carried her away from harm in the greenhouse. It was when she overthought things that she found herself in danger. As long as she understood the nature of the plants, she was always able to free herself from their grasp in record time. 

It was while the Head Girl was zoning out that she heard the whispered conversation of the group in the back corner, an exchange she was sure they wanted her to hear. 

"-Showing up late, and looking like that? Honestly," laughed Darya Flint, a tall girl with gorgeous green eyes and flawless ebony skin that matched the wood of her wand. "I swear, she hasn't bought robes since the Third Year." 

Anne stiffened, and her hand tightened around the polished handle of her wand in her pocket. The beech wood seemed to warm up slightly in her grip as if it were trying to comfort her. 

"It's hardly hygienic, is it?" agreed Cassia Harrows, the petite blonde who was always by Darya's side. "Probably stink like the sty she and her brother live in." 

"I heard he's working in Hogsmeade now, at the Three Broomsticks," Darya murmured conspiratorily. 

"Well, if we have to tolerate Mudbloods, at least they're scrubbing the counters like they should be," sneered Cassia. 

Hearing them mock her brother, the brilliant wizard who deserved so much more than a sister to support and sleepless nights, caused her blood to run cold. Fury ran through her, and her wand seemed to suddenly feel like a chip of ice in her hands. It was itching to spring to action, sensing the emotions of its owner. But before Anne could do anything she regretted, she heard a quiet voice from the group. 

"Can we please talk about something else?" the cool, bored voice of the Head Boy interrupted their conversation. Anne felt her eyes widen. Was he defending her? "I don't want to hear about any...  _Other_ girls." Anne was not facing him, but she could perfectly envision the smirk on his full lips, the one that he had whenever he was trying to rattle her. Anne's grip loosened around her wand, but she found herself feeling a bitter pang in her chest. 

She had started to believe in him, last night during the food fight when their efforts managed to put an end to the madness. She had not thought they were friends exactly, but she had begun to imagine that maybe their partnership could be comfortable, beneficial to the both of them. But that had been foolish. 

She had not been expecting him to leap to her defense, she had imagined that he might at least ask them to change the subject, plain and simple. Even if what he had just done was his attempt to put a stop to it, he had not come to the defense of his partner in a way that enabled her to say that for what it was. Instead, he was flirting with them, and she heard them let out little, almost simpering laughs in response. Anne turned back to Professor Stratton, shaking her head slightly. 

Anne Wheeler was a fool for expecting him to be any different than she had imagined. 

* * *

The rest of the day dragged by when all that Anne really wanted was sleep. She had skipped lunch in order to help a Fourth Year boy sort his schedule, and so when dinner time rolled around the Head Girl was absolutely starving. In favor of sitting alone at the table, Anne loaded a bowl full of French onion soup and took several warm, buttery rolls up to the Common Room, where she set them on the table in the middle of the table. It was then that she noticed a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, in the center of the table. The witch assumed it was for Carlyle, and she went to move it aside when her eyes landed on the tag on the crisp package. Her name was there, written in jet black ink and an elaborate scrawl.

Carefully, Anne took the package into her lap and untied the string. When she unwrapped the paper, she found a pair of robes in her hands. Anne's eyes narrowed as she turned them over, noting the Ravenclaw crest and the fact that they must have been brand new. A mixture of embarrassment and pure frustration washed over Anne in a single, powerful wave.

It was then that she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. 

Anne turned and was met by the face of none other than Phillip Carlyle. She hated herself for noticing that his tie was loose around his neck, and he had clearly just been running his hands through his hair to smooth it back. His eyes widened when he saw her, and she thought she might have even seen a hint of fear when they took in her icy expression. Clearly, he had not been expecting her to be here. 

"Wheeler," he greeted carefully. "Thought you would be down at the Hall." 

"I have a lot to do tonight," she said coolly. Her narrowed eyes meeting his uncertain ones. 

"Right," he muttered, glancing at the package in her lap. "Well, I was just setting down my things, so I'll just be-"

"How dare you." Anne's voice was quiet but sharp as steel, and he flinched. 

"I don't know what you-" 

"The robes." 

He was a horrid liar, but he still attempted to defend himself. "I don't know what you're talking about," he fumbled. "But if you're talking about that package, it could have come from anyone. Maybe your mum was late sending the post." 

"I don't have a mum." 

This time, he had the decency to wince. "I'm sorry." 

"No," she said quietly, dangerously. 

"What?" 

"I don't want your apologies, I don't want your pity, and I sure as hell don't want your charity," Anne spat. Her voice started out quietly, and then with every syllable grew louder. To punctuate the sentence, she wrapped the paper around the robes again and set them on the table. "I don't take charity, and your pity is insulting." 

Carlyle's brow was furrowed over blue eyes, and he quietly began, "If this is about our-" 

"Our what?" Anne hissed, shoving aside her chair and standing with clenched fists. His eyes flashed, and she thought she might have seen hurt. "Our partnership? Get over yourself, Carlyle. There is nothing between us, not friendship, not bloody teamwork. You are Head Boy, and I'm Head Girl, and that is all. I don't want anything else to do with you, especially not with your galleons. So you can take the money you spent on these damn robes and spend it on something more useful, like maybe having someone surgically remove your second face." 

Anne ignored what she thought might be a mixture of frustration and hurt in Carlyle's eyes, but at least he had the decency not to say anything as Anne stood and turned on her heel. She raised her wand, and the tray from the table floated over behind her. The soup sloshed dangerously and she stormed past him towards her room. As soon as she was inside, she lowered the soup to the bedstand and let the door slam shut behind her. 

Anne wasn't hungry anymore, so she pulled aside the covers of her bed forcefully and slid beneath them, forcing herself to think about anything but hurt blue eyes. 

 


	4. The Little Scandal

"-and she slammed the door. I mean, who does that, who slams the door?" 

"Whoot?" 

Phillip ran a hand through his hair in frustration, pulling his silver and green tie from his neck as he turned to face the owl where it sat in its cubby. The barn owl that sat therein blinked several times at Phillip, a gaze which its owner took as an expectant one, asking him to continue. 

"Wheeler," he said impatiently. "Wheeler does that, because I messed up. I... I messed up big time, bloody hell." Phillip pressed his hands to either side of his nose, running them up through his hair and effectively ruining its neat appearance. The owl stared at him for a minute, then began to hop from its perch to one leg of the stepladder Phillip was leaning on. Phillip turned to look down at the owl, who was currently interested in the dangling tie. The white bird hopped up a step on the ladder and began to peck at the end of the tie, then took it in its beak and nibbled it. "You could at least disagree with me." 

"Woo," agreed the bird in a coo, giving the tie a sharp tug and pulling it free from Phillip's neck. The weight of the tie caused the owl to tumble down with it, and both owl and tie landed unceremoniously in a heap on the straw-covered floor of the Owlery. 

This was apparently not an uncommon occurrence, because Phillip stepped down from the stool to pick up the bundle of feathers that was currently chewing on the tie. Phillip set the ruffled mess of feathers onto his shoulder, and the owl set down the tie in favor of nibbling his earlobe instead. 

Phillip glanced out the window at the sprawling grounds below. The sun was out, but it was watery and unfocused, weak where it should have been strong. The breeze had just enough bite in it to be uncomfortable as it played with Phillip's messy hair. The owl seemed unbothered by it, however, so Phillip decided it was alright. 

"I let her down, boy," he said quietly, and for a moment, the owl looked at him in the eyes seriously. "I barely know her, and I let her down, and now I'm never going to get the chance to fix it, because she hates me. And she probably should." Phillip had not realized he was clenching the material of his robes in his hand until he realized his knuckles ached. He released the robes in favor of pinching the fabric between his middle and index finger, rubbing it back and forth absently. "How idiotic is that?" 

"Wrrt," clicked the owl as it resumed in its fascinated prodding at Phillip's ear.

He let the animal have its way as he stared out the window, turning over the previous day's events in his mind. Darya and Cassia often lingered around Phillip and the other members of his group. They were the elite- Carlyle, Avery, Rosier, Mulciber, Fawley, and Rowle, as well as a handful of sixth and fifth years whose presence was tolerated. Several of them were more active in pursuit of the Dark Lord's goals, tormenting Muggle-born classmates verbally. Phillip had always steered away from that,  but he had never stopped them, either. Lately, the behavior had gotten more and more escalated. They ruled the school, after all, they were the seventh years. A little detention did not seem an effective threat for any of them since most except Phillip had spent time enough there to know that it was not such a bad punishment. 

And then, yesterday, the two girls whose idle tongues had annoyed him before had chosen Wheeler as their next target. He had heard them gossip about practically every girl at Hogwarts, even Wheeler herself before. So what had made it different, the day before? 

Phillip's brain threw the answer at him immediately. Wheeler, covered in mud and tuna salad, aiming a spell with stunning accuracy. Full lips, heavy with sleep, muttering  _"Reparo,"_ for the hundredth time late into the evening. The smell of lilacs filling the air and soft twists of wet brown hair in between his fingers.

"Damn it," he muttered, kicking the step stool and immediately regretting it. His toes ached through his shoe, and the owl on his shoulder let out a startled squawk. 

"I don't know what the stool did to you, but I hardly think that it deserves your abuse," muttered a voice from behind him. 

Phillip stiffened, turning to be met with the very face he had been thinking about. Wheeler stood there with a scroll in her grasp. It was strange, seeing her on the weekend because she was wearing Muggle clothing. She wore denim pants and a loose, faded knit cardigan that was clearly far too large for her. The hair that he had definitely  _not_ been thinking about was still in a bun, but not the usual meticulous one she wore during the school week. This one was thrown haphazardly atop her head, and it was messy in a way that made Phillip wonder what it would look like with one tug, slipping out of the style and tumbling down her back. 

"Maybe I should apologize, then," he said quietly. His voice was soft and serious. She visibly stiffened, but her eyes did not leave his.

For a moment, she just looked at him, and then she was moving to a perch upon which a tawny owl, one of the school's, was sleeping. The owl let out a grumpy croak as she began to work on tying the scroll to its leg, and Wheeler focused intently on it. However, this particular owl was not having it. The creature nipped at her fingers with a sharp beak, and Phillip winced every time it came too close. 

"You can use mine," he found himself volunteering. His voice contained a note of hope that he could not erase, and Wheeler looked up at him sharply. Her eyes found the owl perched on his shoulder, however, and he saw her gaze soften against her will. 

"The one that is currently making out with your ear?" she pressed, and Phillip knew that she was trying to hide a little smile. The owl on his shoulder let out a soft 'mrrp' as it continued to nip at Phillip's skin. 

"That would be the one," he laughed softly, offering her a strained smile. "He's a quick one, and trusty. Maybe not the brightest, but he'll get your delivery made." 

Wheeler's eyes did not leave the bundle of ruffled feathers, and then the owl stopped chewing Phillip's ear. Though its body stayed facing Phillip, the bird's head began to turn in her direction in a way that only an owl's could. "Hmmph," she murmured, and there was a little glimmer of affection in her eyes. "Alright, if..." she paused, unsure. 

"Scandal," Phillip finished, offering the owl's name. Wheeler turned her bemused gaze to him, and his face heated up. "Don't make fun, you'll hurt his feelings." He offered her a small smile as a sort of peace offering, but to his disappointment, all amusement left her eyes when she turned to him. 

"If Scandal is up for a delivery to Hogsmeade, then he's my bird," she said quietly. 

The bird on Phillip's shoulder let out a quick, sharp hoot as it began to flap its wings. With one swift movement, Scandal was gliding across the room, coming to a flapping stop on the roost beside the tawny. The sleeping, older owl let out an irritated screech, shuffling away from Scandal and shoving its head under its wing to get more sleep. Scandal lifted his leg up eagerly to Wheeler, and this time she had no difficulty tying the scroll to his leg. 

"W.D. is in Hogsmeade, in one of the flats above the Three Broomsticks," she hummed, quietly talking to the bird. Phillip knew he probably was not meant to hear what she said, but he found himself listening anyway. "He should be working, though. He's always working." The owl let out a chirrup of understanding, looking at Wheeler expectantly when she had finished tying the letter. Wheeler, clearly used to the bird just taking off, sent Phillip a confused glance. 

"You need to scratch him, right in his neck," Phillip explained. He crossed the Owlery and moved to demonstrate for Wheeler, and the owl closed his eyes and let out a coo of happiness. A ghost of a smile played with her lips as she mimicked the gesture, and Scandal leaned into her touch. Phillip did not blame the bird. 

As soon as she had finished, the bird leaped into the air. It took Scandal a few flaps to catch his balance, but before Phillip knew it the bird was soaring out the window. The two of them were left alone in the Owlery, side by side. Phillip reached out for words, any words. However, before he could say anything, Wheeler muttered, "Thanks."

She began to walk away, and he could not stop her, because he had given her every reason to do so. 

* * *

That afternoon at lunch, Phillip had finally managed to shake the feeling of frustrated unease away. The morning had been spent lounging on the grounds beside the lake with Fawley, Rowle, and Avery-- Rosier and Mulciber had somehow managed to land themselves detention within the first day. Their talk had been of Quidditch and summer family dinner parties, as well as of basic school news and developments in their families, all members of the Sacred Twenty-Nine. The conversation had been easy to lose himself in under the leaves of the beech tree, and Phillip was finally beginning to feel slightly more like himself. Lunch was more relaxed, and Phillip was able to join in with the joking that the other members of their group encouraged. With these people, Phillip had a large portion of the final say. If he laughed, it was funny, very much so. If something was said that was dull and he voiced the opinion, the others were likely to agree. The influence fave him power, made him feel in control of something for once in his life. 

Phillip had been comfortable, sitting at the table, until he noticed something out of the corner of his eye from the Gryffindor table. 

One of the students, a boy, had just received his post, and he was staring down at the letter clenched in his grasp with a completely shattered expression. Tears pooled in his eyes, and Phillip could tell that one of the other students in his friend group had made a teasing comment because his round face was red and his chin trembled under tight, kinky curls. Before he knew it, Phillip was excusing himself and approaching the table, and on the way, he was tapping Wheeler on the shoulder. 

The Head Girl looked up from her sandwich with flashing eyes, but before she could say anything, Phillip gestured to the student and continued on his way. The Ravenclaw seemed to understand then, and he could tell she was going to follow behind him. 

Phillip approached the Gryffindor table, and the students all stopped their conversation to watch the Seventh Year with wide eyes. "Hello," he said, offering them all slight smiles. However, his eyes did not leave the one student, who appeared to be wishing for a hole to open up and swallow him. It was Hogwarts, anything was possible. "Can I borrow my friend for a moment?" Phillip gestured to the ruddy-faced boy who looked up at him, slowly nodding. He rose from the table, and Phillip began to walk. Gently, he wrapped his arms around the boy's shoulder. "Take deep breaths," he hummed to the trembling student. "I know it's hard, but you need to breathe. If you can do it, breath in for four counts, hold it for seven, and then breathe out for eight. Here, I will do it with you."

The boy seemed to be fumbling for words, but when Phillip began to do it, he slowly attempted to copy the exercise. Wheeler had cleared a path out of the hall, and so when the doors closed behind the three of them, it was with much less resistance than he had expected. The jabbering of the hall faded into a peaceful silence, And Phillip crouched down beside the younger student. Carefully, he moved to take the letter that the boy was clutching so tightly that his knuckles were white. "I know," he said quietly as the boy resisted. "I'm not going to read it, but it's only going to make it worse." For a moment, the boy held tight to it, and then he released it slowly. Phillip passed the letter to Anne, who took it and stepped back. She seemed to understand that she would not be very much help here. 

Phillip gently helped to lower the boy so that they were both sitting with their backs against the wall. "Okay, keep breathing," he told the shaking boy. "Now..." He took the boy's hand in his own, holding it in a secure grip. "What does my hand feel like?"

"Wh-what?" the boy fumbled through shaking lips. A few tears had fallen, but Phillip did not acknowledge them.

"What does my hand feel like on yours?" 

The bow furrowed his brow through the tears, struggling to put words together. "It... it's war-rm," he stammered. "And t-tight. It's tight." 

"Good," Phillip encouraged. "What else?" 

"It..." The First Year seemed to be concentrating harder now, and the shaking in his body was not as strong. "It's shaped like a... Like a square, sorta. And it's smooth." 

A small, warm smile slid onto Phillip's features, and he paid no attention to Wheeler, who was watching with quiet eyes. "Good," he said soothingly. For a moment, they sat in silence, and Anne slid onto the boy's other side. Then, Phillip said, "What did they say?" 

The boy was quiet, and his eyes were focused on the massive doors across the Entry Hall. "I was supposed to be in Ravenclaw," he said quietly. "My mum and dad and both my sisters are, and most of my family, and... And everyone. And I'm supposed to be, too." The tears were falling, but as long as Phillip did not acknowledge them, them, the boy did not seem inclined to either. "But it doesn't make sense. I'm supposed to be brave." 

"And you are," Phillip said firmly. "It takes a lot of courage to fight your own mind every day, okay?" 

"But sometimes I'm not strong enough." 

"Most days, neither am I." 

The boy turned to look at Phillip with wide eyes. "You... You have them, too?"

"Mostly at night." Phillip looked only at the boy, trying not to think about how Wheeler was hearing all of this. "But you calmed down a lot faster than I do." 

The boy offered Phillip a slightly lopsided smile. "Thanks," he finally mumbled. "But, um, what do I tell..." He dropped off his sentences, unsure. 

"Tell them that I had to tell you about my crush on you," Wheeler decided from the boy's other side, offering him a little grin. It was not patronizing, but rather mischievous. "When I see you in the hallway, I'll make sure to blow kisses." 

The student's eyes lit up, and he grinned too as he stood. "They're not gonna believe that." 

"Oh, I'll make them, just give me a name," she said firmly. 

"Edison," the boy informed her. She nodded, and his grin widened. "This is gonna be so great."

"You just better not cheat on me," she joked playfully, and as Phillip stood, he offered the kid his own smile. "Yeah, you hit the jackpot. You'd be an idiot to mess up with her." Phillip's eyes met Wheeler's, and her smile slowly faded. 

The kid did not seem to notice as he took his letter, crumpling it up in his palm. "I'll see you later," Edison said cheerfully, and then he turned and walked into the hallway. Wheeler and Phillip were left alone, and neither broke their stare

"Wheeler-" 

"I know," she said quietly. "I told you... I don't want apologies." 

"And you won't need them from me anymore," he said quietly. He was not perfect, but he would damn well try not to let her down. "Partners?" Slowly, he offered her a lopsided grin, and Wheeler took a breath. 

"Partners," she agreed. Her gaze softened ever-so-slighty, and then she turned and walked back into the Great Hall. Phillip was left alone, smiling slightly to himself as he allowed the worry clenched in his stomach to finally relax.

 


	5. The Tryouts

Anne had not been expecting to feel the urge to forgive him so quickly. 

But after the First Year student, she had been unable to resist it. She had been completely helpless to calm the student down, and then in front of her, Carlyle had opened up to the boy about the fact that he struggled with the same issues. It would have been so easy simply to comfort him as best as he could, but Carlyle took it to another level, despite the fact that she had been there-- and as far as he knew, she would use anything he gave her against him after what he had done. And then he had looked at her and told her that she was not the type of person that anyone wanted to lose.

Anne did not know why her heart had pounded so fiercely, but when he said that, it did. Still, she had stood her ground, and he had made her a promise that she would not receive his pity ever again. 

That night, Anne did not go down to dinner. She needed time to think, away from him. Things could go back, she decided to herself... To their 'normal,' whatever it had been before. She did not expect him to go about defending her, fighting her battles for her. That was something she needed to do for herself, and both understood that. She knew he was from a completely different world than her, and she did not intend on pulling him away from it. Yes, it caused a slightly painful ache in her chest, but that hardly mattered. Just because she had her world and he had his did not mean that they could not coexist in the neutral ground that was the Common Room. There, they existed in the same space, and that was enough. If Phillip was going to leave the world of family ties, pure blood, and glittering silver, he was going to have to do it himself. 

She would not make any attempt to drag him away when it would mean nothing unless he walked away himself. Besides, why should he leave? They were partners, but nothing more. He had his friends and she had W.D.

Anne sat in the common room by herself in front of the fireplace, curled up in a squishy red armchair that felt absolutely amazing. She had received a lot of homework, and it had taken hours for her to finish a thirty-two-inch essay for Advanced Potions. But now she was done with that, Anne was not ready to set down the quill and go to bed. It was eleven 'o clock, but after this morning, the Head Girl had decided to take on the task of memorizing the names of the First Years. After that morning, it seemed important. They had a massive transition to make, and she wanted to be able to help as much as possible. How, she questioned herself, was she supposed to do this if she did not even know their names? 

It was late, and the fire burned lower and lower. The smell of the wood smoke was soothing, too soothing, and the Ravenclaw found herself nodding off repeatedly. She had been making a list, pasting tiny pictures down neatly and then writing the names from the student registry beside them so that she could look over them in class. It was a neat and self-explanatory system, but her mind was completely exhausted. Anne's fingers felt fuzzy and clumsy, and then, before she knew it, Anne was sinking into darkness. 

When she opened her eyes, she saw eyes, staring at her. 

She was in the center of a room of all black, someplace she did not recognize. Faces with blurred, grotesque features stared at her. Each face looked like it was made of wax that had been disturbed while melted, but the eyes were all the same. They focused on her, staring her down as hands pointed wands in her direction. Anne looked down, but she had no wand-- she had nothing at all. No clothing, no shoes, nothing to separate herself from them and her. It was then that a jet of light escaped one of the wand tips, and she was levitating before them. The faceless mob did not touch her, but they reached out for her with clawed hands holding wands. Sparks escaped one, scorching her skin. A scream left her lips, but no one reacted. More sparks-- on her face, her arms, her chest, her legs. Where they touched, her own skin burned, becoming as waxy and distorted as theirs. She smelled something burning as sparks nestled in her hair, smoldering there despite her screams. 

When she looked up, a skull with a serpent in its mouth leered down at her. 

"Wheeler, Wheeler!" 

Hands gripped her arms, and Anne let out a cry of panic as she struggled to beat them away. Immediately, they released her, and she tumbled to a hard landing on the floor as she struggled to free herself from what she realized was a blanket, trapping in the heat of her body. Anne still smelled smoke as she struggled to extricate herself from folds of fabric, flinging it fiercely across the room. It was the fire, she realized. Something was smoldering in the grate... The scorched remains of what she thought might be an envelope. Yes, she was certain it had been a letter, she could see the green wax of a seal bubbling on the edge of one of the logs, the way her own skin had when met with sparks. 

Anne greedily drew in the air with ragged breaths, and before she realized it she was cradling herself in her own arms. She was on the floor, curled up with her knees held to her chest. Something damp dripped onto her robes, and she realized the source of the moisture was her own eyes. She did not bother to brush the tears away, only struggled to close her mouth. She had been screaming silently, and Anne only realized this when she stopped and found her throat raw. 

Anne looked up to see who had grabbed her, and her stinging brown eyes met the deep blue pools of Carlyle's. 

His face was a mixture of panic and worry, pure and simple. He towered over her, simply looking down at the huddled form of the girl on the floor. Anne's eyes traveled past him, and she realized he had been sitting in the other armchair. On the table beside it was a roll of parchment... her own, she realized. It was the list she had been making of the first years, but it was much longer than it had been when she last remembered doing it. He had continued his work with the same meticulous care she had used. 

Anne looked back to him, and she struggled to speak through parched lips. "N...Night-t..." She swallowed over her sore throat before trying again. "Nightmare." She loathed the weak, scratchy tone of her voice right then, but Anne tried to ignore it as she took her hands and buried her face in them. For a moment, she just breathed and wiped the moisture from her cheeks. When she looked up, he was kneeling down before her, appearing hesitant. 

"Wheeler," he said quietly. "You're exhausted. Come on, let me help get you to bed." His hand was stretched towards hers, and her throat seemed to close up at the idea. 

"N-no, no," she found herself whispering, almost pleading. She loathed herself for it, but she was. "I can't, I don't- It'll happen again." She was shaking, like a leaf almost. 

"You don't have to go to your room," he offered quietly, not removing his hand. "Lay down in the chair, and I'll stay here and work on this. If it happens again, I swear that I will wake you." 

Anne chewed her lip. "Promise?" she found herself asking. 

"Promise." 

Slowly, Anne took his hand and used it to pull herself up. Edison had been right... It was smooth against her own hands, which were roughened from the wood of a broomstick. She walked as if in a daze to the chair, where she curled up. A moment later, she felt the warmth of the blanket being thrown at her. Anne let out a muffled groan, turning to adjust it. 

"Bloody sadist," she mumbled sleepily. "Don't... You don't need to do the chart." 

"You know it," he hummed, amused. "And I'm Head Boy, Wheeler. I'm the only one who  _doesn't_ have to do what you say." 

She fell asleep to the sound of crackling embers and the rustling of parchment as he unrolled the student registry again. 

* * *

The next morning, neither said much of anything about the events of the previous night. Carlyle had fallen asleep in the armchair across from Anne, and when she woke, she threw a crumpled piece of parchment his direction to make sure he got up. The pair of them got ready in an easy dance, making tea and coffee and exchanging insults about one another's beverages the way they had a few days prior. 

That day was going to be a good one, because it was Quidditch tryouts. 

Nothing could dampen Anne's mood-- not the massive amount of Herbology homework they had, the fight between three Fourth Years and a Second Year who held his own surprisingly well, and certainly not the fact that it was raining in icy sheets. As Anne walked out onto the field in her robes, she did not seem to care that the rain was drenching her curls and blue robes. She was on the Quidditch Pitch, and she was going to fly. 

Tryouts began with the Chasers. The rain seemed to discourage several, and this was an immediate turn-off for Anne on their parts. They would be playing in the rain, sleet, and fog, so it was imperative that they be able to fly in any conditions. But the exercises made Anne feel alive. They passed a Quaffle, having been separated by Anne into two teams. The game was fierce, fast-paced. If there was one thing Anne loved about the Ravenclaw House, it was the competitive nature of the students. They were fighting, ignoring ties of house and friendship for the time being to work towards one goal. Anne took everything she saw into account, playing alongside them and manipulating the game so that it went the way that she wanted it to. Response time, ability to pass, agility, speed... Everything played a part in her decisions. She would make them now, before everyone else, and they knew it. Anne saw no point in waiting to let her memory taint what her eyes saw. 

She selected Coleman, a blonde Sixth Year girl whose talent for quick, neat passes and stealing the Quaffle with light fingers would serve them well. She also chose Fourth Year Acuna who had a knack for catching with startling accuracy, even passes that seemed as though they should be completely impossible. For Beaters, she selected sturdily built Spinghel and the reedy Nichols. Nichols had been on the team the year previous, and her performance that day showed she had not allowed her previous success to make her comfortable. The girl's reedy form was deceptive, for her swing was powerful and accurate enough that she could aim between players on her own team with the Bludgers and not harm anyone. Swenson was a returning player as well, being one of the trustiest Keepers Anne had ever had the fortune to play with. Finally, the last addition to their team was found in Sparks, a skinny Second Year who was a surprise to Anne. But his keen eyes and propensity for sharp turns made him the perfect choice for their team. 

The pitch became emptier and emptier as more players left, and those who had chosen slowly began to fill a bench in the back. They were soaked and Anne could tell they were exhausted; they should have been. She had drilled them hard and pitted them against one another. But the satisfaction in their faces made Anne feel warm through the icy rain. They were united by the circumstances of her hard drilling and the freezing rain, and this allowed room for bonding. By the time Gordon was selected, the other members of the team cheered thunderously for the skinny underclassmen. As the rest of the students who had tried out left the field, Anne was able to address the team. 

"Congratulations," she called through the roaring wind, offering them a rare but well-earned smile. Anne may not have been a particularly warm or cuddly person, but after the night she had had, this success made her hopeful. "Don't get complacent. We're going to have a hard season, I can tell. The Hufflepuff team is almost all Seventh Years, which is great for next year's team, but not for us. Still, I think we can do it. If they fall into the trap of relaxing where we can't afford it, we will be alright. And I want the trophy this year. No pressure, but I have six trophies under my belt, and I want to leave with seven." 

A series of chuckles swept through the team, and Anne knew she had said the right thing. This season would be a fight, but it would be a good one. 

"Now, hit the showers. Make sure you warm up your bones and get rest, we can't afford to be getting sick. Get ready. These next few weeks are going to be brutal. They're also going to grow every single one of us." 

The team took that as their orders to disperse, and everyone shook hands with one another as they left. Anne could not seem to stop grinning. She was proud, of this team, and she had flown. Rain or not, she loved it. 

Anne took a shower to rinse herself of the mud that spattered her in the locker room, but she did not bother with soap. Instead, over the running water, she listened to the interactions of the others. Some were more familiar with one another than others, simply based on age. But everyone seemed to be making an effort, especially to include the much younger Sparks. They did not force anything, Anne could tell. They all knew they would be spending a lot of time together, getting to know one another's rougher edges and more difficult spots. However, the struggles they faced would only be the working of grime through the gears of a well-oiled machine. 

Before Anne knew it, they were saying goodbyes, and she was the last one left. 

Anne had changed into a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved shirt over a jacket, and as she left the locker rooms, she clutched her broom in her hands. She was approaching the shed, but then Anne's eyes found the Quidditch Pitch one last time. Something clicked, a tugging in her navel that pulled her towards it. The rain was falling in icy sheets, and she knew it would soak her without mercy. But her hair was already wet and loose down her back, and she wanted to be in the middle of it all... The stormy clouds made the Pitch that much her own. 

Before she knew it, Anne was dumping the bag that held her wet Quidditch thing in the shelter of the overhang by the broom shed. With her broom clenched in her hand, she ran through the rain, feeling its cold bite soak through her black clothing. Anne ignored that, and for a moment, she just stood in the very center in the wet sand. Her jogging had splashed it onto her black leggings, and she already felt mud on her trainers. Anne ignored that, closing her eyes as she stood there in the middle of it all with a tinging in the pit of her stomach. 

Anne had played with Ravenclaw since her very first year. Her abilities with a broom had been undeniable, and her affinity for the air was obvious to anyone who saw her. She was fast, enough so that if one blinked they might miss her. But more than that Anne had an agility, a fearless understanding of the air that allowed her to perform feats that seemed like death wishes. W.D. had a similar talent, but they both knew that Anne was more graceful, more unafraid, more in love with the feeling of no air beneath her feet. So he had bought her the best broom he could for her last birthday, even though he could not afford to. 

Said broom quivered in her hands, waiting for her to mount.

Anne opened her eyes, and in an instant, her soaked, sand-spattered legs were on either side of the broom. Just one slight nudge and the intuitive broom was shooting upwards at an angle that might have been dangerous had she not been holding tight with confident hands. And held tight to the broom, allowing herself to roll in sharp spins as it shot up at a ninety-degree angle. Anne felt the wind tear a laugh from her lips, losing it to the storm forever. Maybe the winds would carry it away from here and on somewhere, where she could find it again once she had escaped the ties of her blood and her status. It did not matter to her now. Here, she was free. 

Once Anne was sufficiently high enough (a good fifty feet up), she allowed the broom to level and slow in speed until it was not shooting as much as it was drifting. If her previous actions had not been insane enough, she fluidly continued in her stunts. These were things she could not do in a game unless she got herself into a very specific situation. Anne perched on the broom, slowly swinging one leg so she practically sat sidesaddle. Then, she let go. 

Anne was hanging upside down from her broom by her knees as she soared through the air lazily, letting her hands stretch free towards the sand below. Lazily, playfully, even, Anne used her foot to nudge the broom so that it stopped midair, and then it began to spin like a pinwheel, with Anne hanging loosely from it. The helplessness of the dream could not reach her up here. 

Anne drifted like this for several seconds until she found herself wanting to shift positions to keep the blood from rushing to her head. Anne reached up and gripped the wood with her fingertips, and then she slid her legs free. The shift of weight caused the broom to dip slightly as she dangled free, and her stomach dropped delightfully as it did so. For a moment, Anne was holding on by her fingers. Then, she pulled herself up in one effortless movement, hooking the broom under her arms. She was soaked and she was in the middle of the fierce wind, and she probably looked a mess with her curls plastered to her face and her clothes sticking to her body. But the cold made her feel alive, and she kicked playfully at the open air like a child dipping their toes off of a pier. 

"Merlin, Wheeler, get down from there! You're going to get caught in one gust of wind and then you'll break your neck, and I'll have to do rounds tomorrow at night all by myself." 

Anne stiffened, and for a moment she almost dangerously dropped a few feet in the air. Anne glanced down below, and standing in the center of the ring holding an umbrella was Carlyle. His robes billowed in the wind, and she almost laughed at how windswept he looked, a strange look for the meticulous Slytherin. 

She did not laugh, however, because she realized that he must have been watching her, with her soaked hair making her look like a drowned cat and her leggings and top plastered to her like a second skin. 

"Honestly, Carlyle, do you have to scare a girl like that?" she demanded. Anne obliged, however, though not completely as he might have wished. She tipped one end of the broom downwards, closing the distance so that she was only ten or so feet from the ground now. The descent was slow, and since Anne was not riding properly, she had to carefully control every movement. Her feet were pointed in her trainers as she lightly scooped at the air with them gracefully, a gesture that appeared to be a mixture of tiptoe and treading water. "You're the only real danger here. Have you been here the whole time?" 

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she was surprised up close exactly how windswept his hair was. Although it was not wet, the wind had tousled it so that it looked wild, disheveled, the way it did after every Quidditch game. She did not know why it was so easy to imagine running her fingers through it and the smell of pine. "Had to scope out the competition. It was not too difficult to blend in underneath the stands." 

"Of course," she muttered. "Bloody cheater. If you can't pick your own team members without seeing how I do it first-" 

"I already chose my team," he hummed, waving a breezy hand. "I wanted to see the style of our opposition. We've got to get past you if we're going to get Hufflepuff, we can't win on my looks alone." 

"Your team must be quite grateful that they're not being judged on your looks." 

"I am hurt, Wheeler. If you must know, popular opinion is that I am the most attractive student in the school." 

"And whose opinion is this? Cite your sources, Carlyle." 

He gave her an amused smirk, shaking his head. "I was scoping out this year's talent, and then I had to look over my notes. So imagine my surprise when the slave driver of the Quidditch team went back on her own advice to come out in the rain and give the whole world a heart attack on her broom." 

Anne hummed, hooking her legs over the broom again and releasing. The soaking curtain of her curls slid off of her shoulder in favor of hanging from her head. "It is not anything I have not done before," she countered. "I am as much an expert at this as you are at coming second to me in everything you do." 

Carlyle arched an eyebrow, and the smirk only increased. "Is that a challenge, Wheeler?" he hummed. "Because I will have you know that we are bitterly going to defeat you this year." He took a step towards her, closing his umbrella in favor of fixing her with a lively stare. 

"Not if I have anything to-"

It was at that moment that the wind intensified, howling in Anne's ears and causing her muscles to stiffen. The gale combined with the redistribution of Anne's weight knocked the broom from the air and suddenly Anne was free-falling. Carlyle cried out, and suddenly he was rushing towards her. As she fell, Anne collided with him, knocking him down with her. 

The wind whipped her hair, obscuring her view. The wind was knocked from Anne's lungs as she went spiraling with Carlyle, their bodies rolling with the wind over one another several times. When they finally came to a stop, Anne was beneath Carlyle. His arms were on either side of her, keeping them from rolling again. Her hair was sprawled out in the red sand behind her head, but several curls were plastered to her bare collarbone. The wet sand coated both of them thickly now, and it was streaked all through Carlyle's face and hair as he propped himself over her. His body rested on top of herse as she fought to catch her breath, and he stared at her with wide eyes. Her own lips were parted slightly in shock, and she could smell the scent of his pine soap as she looked up at him. His weight atop her was dizzying, and her eyes met his own icy blue irises. They flickered, just for a moment, down to his full lips, one of which was being held lightly by his teeth. She could not breathe, could not move. She was drenched and her clothing presented little barrier between them at this point. 

For a moment, the pair of them sat there, Anne's broom beside them, just staring. Then, Anne finally managed to choke out, "C-Carlyle, I can't breathe." 

"I... You... Right," he stammered, rolling off of her. Anne immediately sat up and wiped her face of the grainy sand, blinking several times. She glanced in his direction.

"Are you... I didn't hurt you, did I?" she questioned worriedly. 

"How could you? You're about the size of a German Shepherd," he countered, earning him a glare as he wiped his face. His eyes locked on hers, and the amusement faded as they flickered to her cheekbone. 

"Wheeler, you've got a..." he began quietly, thoughtfully. he took a step towards her, reaching out with his hand as if it was moving of his own accord. His hand cupped her face, with his fingers coming to rest on the nape of her neck as he lightly brushed her cheek with a thumb, removing one last bit of sand. 

They were so close, and his touch made her chest feel like someone had released a million lightning bugs inside of her. For a moment, she forgot about the cold and the wet and her sore body, and her eyes found his lips. 

Her heart leaped, and she snapped out of it. 

"Thank you," she mumbled stiffly as she took a step backward, forcing his hand to stop cupping her cheek. 

This seemed to bring him back to the present, too. "I need to go make... Work through my notes," he stammered. "Now you're down, you'd better take some sort of warm shower." 

"You, too," she said, gesturing to him. "I don't know it the water will be able to warm your heart, but it should feel good on the rest of you." It was a stupid attempt at a quip, and it had failed. But he offered her a small, uncertain smile anyway.

"Bye, Wheeler," he said. "Don't go falling another couple stories between here and the Common Room." Then, he turned and began to walk away, leaving Anne alone with her broom in the center of the pitch. 

 


	6. The Patronus Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //This one's a bit shorter, loves. I don't really know why, but it's just how it ended up turning out. Thank you for your patience, and enjoy the fluff that comes before the storm!

Phillip and Wheeler spent most of the rest of the afternoon moving around the Common Room together, silent as they could be around one another. It was not uncomfortable, but it was slightly charged... Just enough to keep Phillip from retreating completely into his own mind. Both had a massive amount of work to do, and if they did manage to finish all of their homework and Head duties, there were Quidditch plays to attend to. As they sat at their desks, Phillip thought about how much he had to attend to. It should have been easy to focus. 

But it wasn't, and it was the fault of the Ravenclaw who was currently sitting at the desk across from him with a mug of her disgustingly strong tea and a smudge of ink on her nose. 

Everyone knew that Anne Wheeler was an exceptional player, and there countless passes that she had made that were incredible. Many people had seemed to think that these passes were too difficult to even be possible, and with good reason. Many involved her rolling her broom completely upside down to catch a pass, while she held on with only her legs. Phillip had never before understood how she could do such things, but he did now, and it mesmerized him. He had never seen anyone fly like that with a broom... It was as if Anne Wheeler had taken something that had been done one way for as long as it existed and made it her own. 

His mind replayed what he had seen. Every movement was fluid and graceful, and she kept each inch of her body under control. He remembered the way that, even when she was holding on with her feet dangling in the air, they were perfectly pointed and held in graceful stance. His mind replayed her descent towards him, where she seemed to walk down invisible steps as she closed the distance between them like some sort of angel. Her soaked curls, which had framed her face like a halo, only added to the illusion of Wheeler as some sort of seraph. As he tried to focus on Herbology, his mind instead returned to the Quidditch Pitch. 

When it returned to the pair of them, rolling in the sand until he was above her, inches from full lips, he stopped it suddenly. 

He did not know what he was thinking. He had only just gotten out of hot water with Wheeler, and they were still working through tension following the Quidditch Pitch. During the day, he spent time with his group of elites, listening to their gossip and rants and steering the conversation away from Wheeler whenever possible. Yes, they were partners now, but she had made it clear that there wasn't anything more. 

Did he want there to be?

Wheeler went to bed before him, leaving Phillip alone to struggle through Potions. They were studying Amorentia, which meant that they soon would be making an attempt at creating the devilishly tricky potion, so he needed to understand it. When he finished that, he pulled out his wand in order to practice for Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

They were supposed to be practicing the Patronus charm, something that was rumored to be able to earn them a massive amount of points on the exam if it was corporeal. Phillip had succeeded in producing his before, the year previous when it was mentioned that it would be necessary to know the spell for their exams. It had worked for him then, but he had not attempted the spell for several months now, and he knew it took extreme effort. He did not want to look like a complete novice in class, not when it was the Seventh Year and it was more important to be prepared than ever before. 

Not when the things they were studying were becoming more and more necessary for survival. 

Dementors were almost completely out of the control of the Ministry of Magic now, at the Dark Lord's prerogative. They prowled the streets of England and were slowly becoming less concentrated, drifting into Wales and beginning to float across the seas, stopping only to seize a wayward seaman's soul. This kept the Aurors occupied while the Dark Lord focused on what he wanted to. It was much harder to stop that attacks on Muggles when the entire force of wizard fighters was struggling to contain the creatures of darkness and devastation.

Phillip was safe, he tried to remind himself sometimes. But he wasn't really, because after this countless members of his class who had been the main instigators behind the attacks on Muggles would be joining the side of the Dark Lord. And he would be expected to join them. 

Phillip swallowed hard as he clutched the handle of his wand in his palm, ignoring the thought. 

Instead, he pointed the wand in front of him and murmured, _"Expecto Patronum."_ A spurt of silvery mist left his wand, but it went no more than an inch from the tip. When the mist settled around his hand it provided a cooling sensation that faded quickly, along with any of the light. Phillip furrowed his brow and raised his hand, saying it with more determination this time. _"Expecto Patronum!"_ He fed the spell his happiest memory steadily, as though he were feeding kindling to a fire. The memory involved his first night at Hogwarts, having the hat set onto his head and the whole room burst into cheers. He had been so terrified that it would send him anywhere else, that he would be in the same position that young Edison had without any way of explaining to his parents what had happened. The relief had been the most powerful thing that he had felt to that point in his life, and maybe since. 

Silver left his wand again, forming a cloud of mist that would surely provide a slight layer of protection from a dementor so that someone else could take it down. But there was no hint of anything within the mist, not the form of any shape that would be capable of driving the creature off on its own. Phillip let out a groan of frustration through gritted teeth, and the cloud dissipated quickly. 

"You're too calculated." Phillip stiffened, and when he turned, he found Wheeler standing on the stairs that led to their dormitory. She was wrapped in the blanket from her bed, which was a deep blue over what appeared to be a men's t-shirt and old flannel pajama pants. Wheeler's curly hair was pulled up into a ponytail, but it was a mess from sleep and little portions stuck out all over the place. Her eyes were sharp, but lines of sleep surrounded them, and her lips appeared slightly dry the way anyone's were when they woke up. She looked amazing. 

What would she look like in one of his shirts, he found himself wondering? 

Phillip shook his head quickly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, looking up at her with a raised eyebrow. "I've done it before, and I did it just like this." 

"I remember, I was in your DADA class," she retorted, waking over to the kettle. She put water on, and he watched her move throughout the kitchen to fetch the tea he knew she liked for bed. Sometimes, when he woke, he knew she'd woken up in the night because the jar of lavender and chamomile tea was still out on the counter, because she had forgotten to put it away. He was keeping a mental note of the amount in the jar, and he had a bag of the stuff in his room shoved under the bed. When he was sure she would not catch him, he added a few inches more.

"I know you were, so you saw me," he countered. "I can produce a corporeal Patronus, and this is exactly how I did it." 

"So can I, and maybe it worked for you before, but something's changed. Your corporeal was never animated enough anyway, it was stunted by your memory."

"My Patronus is not stunted!" he huffed. 

"It's alright, Carlyle, men all over England struggle to put out," she said in a sarcastic voice that mimicked the smooth tones of a Healer. He shot her a look, and she looked satisfied with herself. "It never moved very far from you, and if it's going to chase off a dementor, it has to. It was never as bright as it could have been, either."

"Says who?' 

"Fine, you want the blunt version?" 

"I wasn't aware that you were capable of giving anything _but_ the blunt version." 

His quip produced a sleepy smile from Wheeler, but a smile nonetheless. He wished he could bottle it up, the smile that he had put on her lips. Still, when she spoke, it was with the same grit she always had. "It was never near as bright as mine." 

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't understand..." he said slowly. "I've never seen you produce a Patronus, much less a corporeal one." 

She shrugged. "Better just to do it for the examiners, have a trick to keep up my sleeve," she replied. "But the point is, your approach to the spell is wrong. It will give you the bare minimum results, but if you want to succeed past that, you have to change it." 

"I don't get what you mean," he confessed. "I've been doing everything the way we were taught-" 

"I'm not talking about something that can be taught," she said seriously. He stared blankly at her, and Wheeler let out a soft sigh. She fished her wand out of the massive pocket in the flannel pants, and his eyes widened. Was that why she clearly wore guys' pajamas, so she could have her wand on her while she slept? But then, Phillip remembered finding her curled up on the chair, her face streaming with tears and twisted in pain as she let out silent screams. Maybe it made sense. 

Wheeler lifted the gleaming handle of her wand, which he noticed was carved in a manner that appeared to be by hand. If he looked very closely, he could see vines of roses curving up the wand's handle with leaves, thorns, and all. She levitated a piece of paper off of his desk, and the Seventh Year school supplies list drifted over to her. "Watch," she instructed. She moved the paper so that it was over the fire, and then, with a murmured spell, it began to shred itself at a rhythmic pace above the fire. The flames leaped a little to claim the paper, but past that, there was no drastic change. 

"You aren't using a strong enough spell, which is why you're faltering. Because when you try to give it steady, calculated amounts of your happiness, it isn't going to work. You create a little bit and it falls flat." 

"But if I give too much, won't I just exhaust myself?" he said slowly. He understood where she was going with the visual, but there were still points he needed to process. 

"That's the point," she hummed. "Dementors... What do they do, Phillip?" Her tone was not derisive as she asked him a question they both knew he could answer. 

"They feed on happiness," he said slowly. "They take it all, everything, and then leave a shell." 

"Exactly," Wheeler said, and her voice sounded almost proud. "Which is why you have to give it to them without leaving a shell. Everything... An explosion of it, given freely. Because it isn't the lack of happiness that turns you into a shell, it's having it ripped away from you without properly letting go." She raised her wand again, and this time, a massive stack of papers from his desk flew into the fire. The flames roared in a shower of sparks, several of which landed dangerously close to the rug. "You need to completely let everything go if you want to generate the explosion of energy you need." 

"That was the revisions to the student handbook I was making." 

"But it was for  _magic._ " When he saw the mischievous look on her face, he started laughing, and then a truly strange thing started happening... She was laughing too, and they were both relaxed and at ease together in the slightly overheated room. 

"Alright, then, Wheeler. Show me how it's done if you're such a pro," he challenged, leaning against one of the chairs. 

"Challenge accepted," she retorted, lifting her wand. Wheeler took a deep breath and closed her eyes, and then she murmured, _"Expecto Patronum."_ He was surprised by the quiet take she had on the spell, but he came to the conclusion that she did not need shouted words or gestures of the hand. 

Immediately, from the tip of her wand, thick strands of silver fog began to roll into a shape. Wings formed, and then a beak, and a proud chest and a pair of intense eyes. It was a buzzard, a proud one with a hooked beak that looked sharp enough to take out Phillip's eye as it soared through the room and left a trail of mist in its wake. He found himself mesmerized by the animal, watching as it circled up above the vaulted ceiling. The bird seemed to sense his gaze, and it turned its piercing gaze onto him. It was just like looking Wheeler in the eyes. 

He turned to look at her, with the ghost of a laugh on her lips and satisfaction in her eyes, and then before he knew it he was lifting his wand and repeating the incantation. He did not feed it the memories of the relief of having met his parents' expectations, the feeling that had been mixed with the fear that he would be just like them. He fed it her smile and their banter and the way her laughter made him feel, and he fed it the uncertainty he felt when he looked at her as he questioned every beat of his heart. He fed it the way she had looked, spiraling through the air like she was a breath of wind and then descending as though she had come from the heavens, in spite of her soaked clothing and wild curls.

From his wand, thick clouds of silver smoke began to flow freely, rolling into the massive shape of an animal-- a bear, with massive, hulking shoulders and a lumbering gait as it began to prowl the common room, peering up at the buzzard above. The creature shocked him as it moved away from him, seeming to take on a mind of its own in a way it never had before. It glowed, bright enough to burn its silhouette into his gaze if he looked too long. 

"See?" she hummed, turning to look at him with the hint of a smirk. "Now, just do that in DADA and Professor Barnum will be falling over herself to praise you." 

Phillip looked at her for a moment, staring. His eyes were wide, and he did not know what to say. His lips did not seem capable of forming words. "I- Thanks, Wheeler," he finally managed to fumble. His tone caused her to raise an eyebrow.

"Merlin, you need to go to bed, Carlyle," she commented as she poured the hot water from the kettle into her mug, the same one she always used. "It's an exhausting spell, and your body heals when you sleep. Your ego will need it tonight to recover from such a brutal loss to me." She gave him a sweet smile as she picked up the mug and left the room, leaving him alone. 

Phillip watched as the buzzard circled the bear, causing the creature to tilt its head and stare. The bird was fading, but Phillip watched its every move until it was gone. His own Patronus turned an expectant gaze on Phillip, and he blinked back at the creature, stunned. His previous Patronuses had been a mere shadow of this... The massive creature had come alive in a way that it never had before. 

It had come alive with her, the same way Phillip was starting to wonder if he was. 

 

Defense Against the Dark Arts had gone exactly the way that Wheeler had predicted, with Professor Barnum thrilled to no end by the creature that burst free of his wand. The N.E.W.T level class was smaller, a mix of students from all of the houses, so Wheeler was there as well. Across the room, she had tossed him a smirk that unsettled him because of the way it caused his heart to leap. Rowle and Rosier, who were also in the class, had sat at his side with massive sneers as other students attempted the incantation as if his success somehow carried over to them. When Wheeler went, however, they could find no reason to sneer. 

Her buzzard soared through the air for a few moments, seeming to enjoy being the object of awe for the moment. But then, it spotted the bear that Phillip had produced from the night before. The creature opened its beak and allowed a caw to escape as it flew to the familiar creature, and then it perched on the lumbering shoulders of Phillip's Patronus, which had yet to fade. His bear let out a bemused huff, but it made no move to brush off the creature. It was Phillip's turn to give Wheeler a smug grin, and she had quickly looked away from him. 

The feeling of success carried over all throughout Phillip's morning, and into the lunch hours. He had not even minded, so much, listening to Fawley and Avery ramble on about some attack on a Muggle building in Cokeworth. He had the full feeling in his chest of knowing he had improved, that he had done well... But part of him wanted to explore why.

Why had Anne Wheeler's presence been the thing he reached for to fuel his Patronus charm? And more than that, why had it worked so well? 


	7. The Fall

The next few weeks, schoolwork picked up for both Anne and Phillip to a ridiculous pace. They were seventh years, and so the two of them were often spending nights at their desks staying up until the early hours of the morning. Part of Anne did not mind, however. They were busy, but Anne was starting to get a handle on their jobs, and she could tell that Phillip was as well. By now they had memorized the names of all the First Years and knew who to check on when they went to meals, and both knew the Student Handbook like the backs of their hands.

Back in the Common Room, they seemed to have settled into a comfortable sort of domesticity. Anne did not know exactly how it had happened, but at some point over those weeks, Phillip Carlyle had carved himself a space in her life. There were days where they did not have any time to speak and days that they engaged in banter all morning in the Common Room, but whatever it was, it was comfortable. There was much to do for both of them; Carlyle and Anne had enough homework to drown in, as well as Quidditch teams to train and Head Boy and Girl responsibilities. Anne had started to pick up a Sunday shift at the Three Broomsticks to help out W.D., which took up more time. But the busy nature of their routine was alright with her. 

However comfortable the two of them may have been together, however, there was a mounting tension growing in the school that lingered no matter how comfortable they were. The attacks were getting more and more frequent, and they were rising in gravity from simple vandalism and spellwork to injury and brutality. Headmaster Barnum announced the second week into school that there would be an earlier curfew, and that the punishment would be much graver if students were caught out of bed than ever before. On the nights that Anne and Carlyle helped with patrolling the school, they had yet to even see one person out of bed. They were the Heads of school, they knew exactly how much trouble the students of Hogwarts were capable of-- and even the worst troublemakers among them did not brave the hallways at night, not when the darkness outside the windows reflected the darkness that was seeping into the wizarding world. 

Every once in a while, though, the dark and stormy weather housed moments that lit a fire in Anne's chest, one that could keep her warm in spite of the chilled hatred that seemed to be surrounding them on all sides. 

One of those moments came in the form of a morning Herbology class three weeks later. Anne and Carlyle were coming down from their dorms, with both of them having made the decision to skip breakfast in favor of a bit more sleep. The autumn weather had been stormy as of late, and today would be no exception. The clouds were a deep grey, almost black despite the fact that it was morning. The wind carried a hint of the coming rain on its wings, and Carlyle glanced up as they left the front doors of the castle. 

"It's going to rain again," he mumbled distastefully, taking a bite out of one of the biscuits Anne had brought up from the Great Hall the night before. 

"What? No," she retorted, her voice exaggerated in its sarcasm. "I had no idea. Nothing could have prepared me for this life-altering information, especially not the fact that it's rained every day for the past week-" 

Thunder clapped across the sky, and the sky seemed to split open as it poured with rain. It fell down in thick sheets, soaking into the already muddy paths and completely soaking Anne's hair and robes. Carlyle drew in a sharp breath as the icy water soaked into his clothing, calling, "How far are we from the greenhouse?" Neither could see more than a few feet in front of them. 

"We've still got the whole rest of the path," Anne called back, turning a worried gaze to her bag. She did not want to have to dry everything off, not when her books had been the focus of so many mending spells already. "Run!" 

The Head Girl threw her arms up over her head, sprinting down the muddy path. The slippery earth tossed the mud back onto her legs, but Anne tried not to think about its slimy texture on her socks as she picked her way down the slippery path. In the distance, she could see the greenhouse. It was yards away, and those yards seemed like miles as she ran with Carlyle behind her. 

Anne only stopped when she heard a thud and a slight grunt, the sound of a body hitting the ground. "Carlyle?" she cried out, turning to look down. Her eyes found him sprawled out in the mud, and for a moment she panicked. "Carlyle! Are you alright?" 

He was clearly muttering under his breath as he lifted his head to look up at her. "Tripped," he mumbled, struggling to sit up. Anne could not keep a peal of laughter from bursting from her lips, despite the fact that they were both drenched. The entire left side of Carlye's face was smeared with mud, and it continued all down his body. He shot her a look but did not seem all that upset. "Enjoying the view, Wheeler?" he hummed sarcastically, gesturing to his mud-covered front. It did plaster his robes to his body, and Anne could see a hint of the muscle that she had seen that night all those weeks ago when they had shared the bathroom. 

Her face heated up slightly, but her smirk did not disappear. "No, I'm just enjoying the sight of you as a brunette." Carlyle rose his hand to his hair and swore softly when he realized that it was indeed muddy. Anne's laughter only intensified, and as he watched her, she could see his own smile forming. However, there was mischief in his. 

"Say, Wheeler, fancy a hug?" he asked her innocently, and Anne stopped laughing. "No, I-" 

Before she could respond, Carlye had reached out and was tugging on her ankle. A yelp left her lips as she lost her balance, and before she knew it she was landing beside him in a muddy heap. Anne landed on her back, and she felt the slimy substance squish its way through her curls, sliding down the back of her neck like slimy fingers. Anne sat up, glaring at the laughing Slytherin. 

"You prat!" she decided, combing through her hair with fingers that came away filthy. "How in the name of Merlin am I supposed to get this out before class?" 

"You can skip the first five minutes, like Stratton would care," scoffed Carlyle, his eyes sparkling. "You're brilliant." 

"Says the one who somehow managed to free himself from the Venomous Tentacula in under a minute." 

"You do realize that you're complimenting me, right?" 

"Oh, no. Thanks for pointing that out, I wouldn't want to be doing that. I do have a reputation to maintain." 

They were soaked in rain and the mud, sitting and laughing on the ground as their books were soaked. For a moment, Anne did not care about any of those things. He was leaning over with a handful of mud and smearing it across her cheek playfully, and in return, she had lobbed a massive glob into his hair. They were sprawled there like children, and Anne was at ease for the first time in a while. Then Carlyle caught a glimpse of the face of his watch, and his eyes widened. "Merlin."

Anne peered at the watch and she swore softly. "We're going to have to go like this and clean up when we get there," she told him, standing and reaching out a hand to help him up. He took it, grabbing his bag so that they could move along the path. 

"Bloody hell," he mumbled as he looked down at his mud-smeared robes. "We're going to look ridiculous." 

"Not me," Anne joked, tossing her head. "I look like such a heartbreaker." Her muddy hair was dripping down her back and her face was smeared with brown as she arched a playful eyebrow at him. 

He looked up to her, and his gaze softened. "Yeah, you do," he said, but he did not return her sarcasm. There was warmth in his voice instead, and Anne felt her cheeks burn beneath the mud. She took a deep breath and looked up at him, and her eyes locked on his for a moment. He made her forget, just for moments at a time, that the wizarding world was fighting a war that was bubbling under the surface. 

The baby blue eyes that met her own were the kind that she could get lost in, but Anne didn't want to get lost in anyone. She had too much to lose, especially from a Pureblood who came from a pair of Death Eater parents. Would he become one, too, she wondered? Her heart panged at the thought of the face before her growing gaunt and pale, of those baby blue eyes becoming sunken from the amount of deaths they had seen. 

No. 

Anne turned quickly, glancing up at the greenhouse. "We're here," she said softly, and then she had pulled the door open, leaving him to open it himself. There were shocked whispers as Anne slipped into the back and began to work on vanishing the mud from her things and her clothing. The door opened again, revealing a filthy Phillip Carlyle, and the murmurs only intensified. Anne ignored his hasty excuse about slipping over a root in the path, trying not to listen as he spoke to the friends who already had Dark Marks on their arms. 

* * *

 

The next day, Anne could barely contain the excitement writing in her stomach as she sat with her Quidditch team. Their first two games had gone wonderfully, mostly because Anne had them practicing once a day on weekdays and twice on the weekends. It had taken some getting used to. Coleman and Acuna had some trouble clicking as Chasers, partially because Acuna continued to flirt with Coleman between passes. This caused the startled blonde to drop the Quaffle, and Anne had to summon it back up to them. This was only a problem for a few days, however, because Anne had quite literally told Acuna that he did not get to shoot his shot with Coleman until he could actually make them on the Quidditch Pitch. His accuracy improved miraculously after that comment, and there were few other issues with her two Chasers. 

Anne was fairly sure that she could count on her fingers the number of goals Swenson allowed past him throughout their weeks of rehearsals, and she made sure to let him know that knew this. The Keeper seemed to float whenever she complimented him, tossing her a smile with his remarkably straight teeth before catching the next one. Nichols and Spinghel meshed surprisingly well together, and Anne left several practices with lumps from them that she knew would take someone off a broom easily. Sparks's knack for finding the Snitch was incredible, and the Quidditch Captain's only remark for him was to time it right, and if he saw it beforehand, to track it and capture it at a moment that would secure them their win.

As the team walked out onto the field in their deep blue robes, Anne's eyes shone. She felt best in these robes of deep blue. They actually fit her for one thing, since the school provided them new every year. Her house colors of bronze and blue instilled a pride in Anne that she knew would never fade, not even when she was out of Hogwarts and flying professionally. The Ravenclaw team would always be the object of her pride. 

The stands roared as Anne and her team met the green-clad players in the center of the pitch. It was only then that Anne turned from Sparks, who stood beside her. She always made sure the young student had somewhere to stand where he would be comfortable, safe with the other members of the team. Anne knew she was expected to shake hands with the captain of the Slytherin team, Carlyle. She turned to face him with lively eyes, and he grinned at her as he extended a hand. His little, signature smirk was back, and she felt her heart skip a beat. He looked good, in his Quidditch robes... Anne scolded herself and stepped up, reaching out with her hand. 

"Ready to lose, Wheeler?" Carlyle hummed as they shook. Anne was not sure if she was imagining it, but she thought that he held onto the shake a moment longer than necessary. 

It was her turn to look up at Carlyle with a little grin of her own. 

"Never." 

The whistle blew, and they all took off. The Slytherins had possession of the Quaffle, and Anne, Acuna, and Coleman went whizzing between the players. 

Coleman intercepted a Slytherin pass with nimble fingers before releasing it to soar over their heads, where it was nimbly captured by Acuna. He tossed Coleman a wink before shooting down to the other end of the pitch. The Chasers had all been on the Ravenclaw end, so their path towards the Slytherin goalposts was largely unhindered. Acuna passed the Quaffle with calculated precision to Anne, who had a Slytherin player on either side of her. At the last second, when they moved to make a grab for her, Anne shot directly upwards. The two Slytherins crashed into one another, and the crowd gasped. 

Anne was prepared to make the shot when suddenly a Bludger whizzed in her direction. Anne was forced to dart to the sides, straight into the hands of a Slytherin Chaser who caught the Quaffle and made off with it. She shot a dirty look in the direction of the Beater, only to have it returned by Carlyle with a flirty wink that was all too reminiscent of Acuna. She simply made a face in response and shot down to the other end of the pitch. 

The Slytherins had scored, but not a moment after that had happened Acuna took possession of the Quaffle. The Fourth Year shot down the pitch and took spectacular aim, passing to Anne. The two passed the ball back and forth several times, on exactly the same wavelength. Soon, Anne outstripped him and made the throw into the goal, straight through the legs of the Keeper. The Ravenclaw side of the stands burst into cheers, and when the Slytherins took possession of the Quaffle, the Ravenclaw team moved to pursue them. 

It was then that Anne's broom screeched to a dead halt in the center of the pitch, sixty feet into the air. 

Anne nearly flew off from sheer momentum alone, but she managed to stay on the broom by snapping her legs together and gripping it until her knuckles turned red. There was noise from the stands as Anne tried to nudge her broom forward. The usually responsive broom was frozen, and it would not move an inch. Anne frowned, trying to reach for her wand from her pocket. 

The broom began to jerk immediately, yanking her a bit forwards, and then upwards, and then down with massive force. A cry of shock left Anne's lips as she held tight. The broom was making an attempt to roll itself, and Anne did not resist. Instead, she clung to it, allowing it to turn her upside down. Several of the teachers were scanning the stands with panicked faces, and a couple had made their way onto the pitch and were attempting to cast enchantments. A few of the Slytherin players had possession of the ball and were scoring repeatedly, but the Ravenclaw team surrounded Anne. Their brooms were a few yards away, but they could not get close for fear of being knocked off themselves. 

"No, get back, Sparks!" Anne ordered as the spindly second year tensed to propel his broom forward. "I don't want you getting hurt." 

"That's kind of our concern for you," Swenson fired back, and the broadly build Keeper looked at her with determination in his eyes. "I can-" 

"Wheeler!" 

Anne looked up, and her eyes met Carlyle's blue ones. She rolled her eyes, gritting her teeth as she broom began to jerk her forward again. "If you're here to remind me how many points you have now, I'm a little bit preoccupied-" she began, but Carlyle cut her off. The others were hovering around her, but he moved underneath, sliding forward on his broom. 

"Do what you did at tryouts, with your legs," he called to her. Her eyes widened, and the Ravenclaw team exchanged confused glances. 

"Are you crazy?" Anne hissed as the broom began to roll again. 

"No, but you are, and if you do it, I can take your hands and catch you, pull you onto the broom with me," he retorted. His blue eyes held determination, but there was something else in them that she had not expected to see- fear. Anne knew she could not hold on much longer, her hands were already beginning to slip from the handle. 

"I'll pull you off," she said, worried. 

"I can hold on. The worst you'll do is give me a few bruises," he called in reply. "Come on, Wheeler, before you don't have the choice over whether or not to fall." 

"I can't do it in my robes!" she called back. "Help me, I can't reach my wand."

Phillip swore and fumbled in the pocket of his robes for his wand. When he produced it, he aimed for her robes and shouted a spell. The robes tore neatly down the back, falling freely until they spiraled to the sandy ground below. Anne was left in a white camisole and a pair of leggings, which was perfect. 

The broom bucked even more viciously as Anne struggled to swing one leg over. The crowd seemed to be holding their breath as she managed to swing her left leg to join ger right, and then she took a breath and fell backward. There were screams as she did so, but then the crowd seemed to realize that she was gripping her broom with her legs. Shouts filled the air as she extended her hands down to Carlyle, and he took them, shifting so that he could pull her a bit closer. Her broom came with her, however, and it was bucking dangerously. She heard gasps from her teammates as he took her hands, holding them fast.

Carlyle looked into her eyes, and for a moment those pools of blue seemed to be washing over her. "Let go," he said softly. 

She did. 

Anne freefell, and Carlye used her momentum to guide her onto his broom. It was a sharp, awkward landing, and the broom fell several feet in the air due to the sudden addition of new weight. There was no room for her to leave space between them, so Anne gripped his upper arm to keep herself on the broom. When she finally managed to adjust, she was forced to wrap her arms around his waist. The broom that had been bucking so viciously was close, terribly close. Anne shoved it away, calling, "Go!" 

Carlyle winced as he placed his wrists back on the broom handle and shot forward. "Did you hurt yourself?" she called. 

"It's just a sprain," he called back as he flew her towards the ground. "It will be easy to fix."

Anne was silent for a moment as they came to the ground, where several teachers were waiting to meet them. "I'm sorry," she finally said before they landed. 

"It isn't your-" 

Immediately, the teachers were buzzing around them, asking about injuries. Anne was fine, but Professor Barnum immediately began to murmur an incantation to heal Phillip's sprained wrist. The Quidditch team landed behind them, and almost immediately they were by Anne's side. 

"What was that?" Acuna demanded. "Did it just start happening, or did someone shoot a hex at you? We didn't see anything." 

"That was amazing," Nichols praised, referring to the drop that had just happened. "How did you-" 

"Are you okay?" Swenson interrupted, his voice quieter. 

Anne looked between them, nodding slowly. "Yeah... Yeah, I am. But Carlyle sprained his wrist," she informed them, gesturing to the Slytherin captain who was being tended to. "I think we owe him a thank you." 

Sparks led the way to approach Carlyle, who was being lectured by Professor Barnum about heroics and taking unnecessary risks. Anne smiled slightly over Sparks's head at him, raising an eyebrow.  _Thank you,_ she mouthed, and he nodded in return as he was me with one hundred pounds of jabbering Second Year.


	8. The Seventh Year Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Sorry this took so bloody long, I had friends over and then I forgot to save and my computer crashed. XD Thanks for the wait!

**[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD) **

**Song of the Chapter: "[Time](https://open.spotify.com/track/2cyTXelFvE7WjSAj8U5vvb)" by Mikky Ekko**

* * *

 

The following day, the whole school was abuzz about the events of the previous day's Quidditch game from the newest First Year to Phillip's Seventh Year friends. 

Everyone had a different take on the events, and none was free from bias. Most members of the Ravenclaw Team and House seemed to sympathize with Wheeler, which he did not find incredibly unreasonable. After all, the Head Girl had been fighting for her life to stay atop a hexed broom, hung from it by her knees, and then free-fallen through the air onto another's broom. Part of Phillip was pleased that Wheeler was getting the attention she deserved for her skills on her broom, ones that she had not been able to showcase before. Wheeler seemed slightly uncomfortable with all of the attention, but Phillip still could see hidden smiles on her lips after younger students asked her about what had happened. Other students, however, suggested that the stunt had been faked because Ravenclaw knew they were going to lose. Afer all, they seemed to whisper, if she had not revealed those skills to them before, what else could Anne Wheeler be hiding? 

Upon investigating the broom, it had been clear that the object was tampered with. Professor Barnum came to tell them while Wheeler was out drilling her team from the ground for their make-up game that next Saturday, but instead of finding Wheeler she found an exhausted Slytherin struggling through the Potions homework. He looked up as the DADA instructor entered the room with a somber expression on her face. 

"Ah, Mr. Carlyle," the blonde woman had greeted him with a weary smile on her face. "Where would I be able to find Miss Wheeler?" 

"Out on the Pitch," Phillip responded, setting down his quill. "Wait, Professor. Did you find out about the broom, what caused it?"

 The blonde offered him a gentle smile, but there was a sadness in it. "The internal spellwork that helps it to function has been tampered with," she responded. "We aren't able to fix it... If Ms. Wheeler hopes to continue playing Quidditch, she will need to purchase a new one or use a school broom. I need to find her and inform her, thank you for your time." 

Phillip felt his heart sink. Wheeler had been working over the weekends with her brother, and he knew it was just so they could keep rent and school expenses paid. There was no way that she would be able to afford a broom. As Professor Barnum turned, he called, "Wait." She paused and glanced back at him curiously. 

Phillip opened a drawer in his desk and grabbed at a coin purse. "How much would it cost to buy a broom of the same model?" Professor Barnum blinked, and before she could respond, he had given her the purse. "I think there should be enough in here." 

Carefully, the professor looked down. Her eyes widened as she saw the sheer amount in the bag, and when she looked up at him, there was a knowing smile on her lips. "Yes, I think you are right," she responded with sparkling eyes. "Would you like me to take the liberty of ordering another, Mr. Carlyle?" 

He felt himself grow slightly uncomfortable under her gaze of understanding. "Yes, please," he said quickly. "But...  But if you could tell Miss Wheeler that it was covered by the warranty on that particular model, I would greatly appreciate it." 

The blonde professor tucked the bag of money into the pocket of her robes, and she shook her head slightly as she gave him a gentle grin. "Ms. Wheeler is lucky to have you." 

"Well, I mean- I would do anything, you know, for friends," he struggled to recover. His cheeks were slightly warm as he ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. 

This caused the Professor's smile to fade slightly. "A noble sentiment, but I hope that is not the case," she murmured seriously, looking at him with calm, cool eyes. "Too many students lately have been making the wrong decisions on behalf of their friends. What you said to me is a brave thing, but it also places responsibility on people such as yourself, Mr. Carlyle. In times like these, choosing your loyalties is more important than anything you will face." 

Professor Barnum turned on her heel and left him alone. Her words rang in his head, and he tried not to think about how true they were... And how dangerous the line he walked was because of them.

Phillip had hoped that he would be able to stop thinking about Barnum's words, but the very next morning at breakfast, he found himself staring them in the face.

"-Wasn't even that impressive, I mean, did you see it?" scoffed Cassia from across the table. The Slytherin Seeker shot a glare across the hall as she raised her pumpkin juice to her pouty lips. "Honestly. Is she here to play Quidditch, or to join the bloody circus? I had just spotted the Snitch, and if that hadn't happened, we would have won!" 

"She probably exaggerated it. You know how they've been lately, blowing things out of proportion," commented Rowle between the mouthful of sausage he was chomping on. "Why did you?" Avery demanded, raising an eyebrow at him over a hooked nose. "It wouldn't have been that hard. All that you would have had to do was stay back, and she would have fallen. One less Mudblood at this school, and then your competition is gone, for the rest of the season." 

All eyes were on Phillip now, and he forced himself to look up with a composed face. Under the table, his hands were balled into fists. Hearing them call her that made his blood roar in his ears, and Phillip couldn't afford to get upset. A display like that would reach his parents before he could do anything about it, and that could be extremely dangerous. Wheeler would understand, wouldn't she? Besides... These people had been his friends for a long time. "I couldn't let her fall," he said with a shrug. "I mean, think about it. It would have looked bad for us if she'd fallen in front of the whole school, and in a game with us. The investigation could have found something that stopped us playing Quidditch, or worse. The hex itself got the message across, I think. There wasn't any need for anything else." 

He kept his tone haughty, lifting his chin as hed loaded bacon onto his breakfast plate. He could not tell, exactly, who had cast the spell... They seemed to have kept him out of the loop on it, and that disturbed him ever so slightly. Perhaps he did not normally participate in the hexing and jinxing they did, but most of the time he was at least aware of it, whether it was slightly before or after the fact. Maybe it was his duties as Head Boy that was distancing him from them, or maybe they were sensing the hesitance he was beginning to feel regarding his future after Hogwarts. 

Whatever it was, it made him feel like he was suspended halfway between normalcy and something dark and throbbing that kept him staring over his shoulder. 

Seeming satisfied with the explanation, Cassia cast him a sweet smile. "Well, don't you worry," she promised with a flirty wink. "I'll win us the next game, no matter what Wheeler does." 

"It's a shame, really," commented Fawley. The tall, broad boy refilled his goblet with juice, casting a glance over at where Wheeler sat with a raised eyebrow. "She's not bad-looking, for a Mudblood." 

Phillip's hands were shaking as he shoved them into his pockets. 

"No, not with that little body," agreed Rosier with a smirk from a way down the table. "And you saw it, yesterday when the robes came off. And athletic, too. Imagine, if she can do that while riding a broomstick, what she could do while riding-" 

"Honestly," Cassia scoffed, cutting off the jeering boys. "She's not that attractive." 

"Mm," Avery sneered, glancing over at Wheeler. His gaze lingered places that Phillip did not like and he clutched his wand close. "Well, let's just say that I wouldn't mind cutting those robes off of her myself. Good job, Carlyle." Their gazes turned to him, and he had to fight for nonchalance as he rolled his eyes. 

"Whatever," he replied, tilting his chin up. "You know what the Dark Lord says about tainted blood." The words hurt in his throat, and they were as much for himself as they were for the others. Wheeler was a danger to him, and he was a danger to her... So why had he frequently found himself smiling when he walked past the lilac bushes on the grounds? 

"Exactly," Cassia agreed, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. Her own eyes were filled with a ruthlessness, an edge that genuinely frightened Phillip, not for himself, but for Anne. He cast the Ravenclaw Chaser a look, and his eyes found the back of her curly bun. She was sitting by Swenson, and they were laughing... Surely not talking about darkness, about terror, about the horrible fate that she supposedly deserved. 

The conversation moved on, but Phillip's mind did not leave the way that he had felt with Avery's eyes crawling over her, speaking about her body as if it were a slab of meat rather than the property of the girl that refused to leave his mind.

* * *

 "I'll give you three mornings of tea made for you." 

"I can make my own tea, Carlyle, it takes me two minutes. You need to work on finding a better bartering chip." 

"But you said we can't use money!"

"And since then, it's become increasingly clear exactly how much you rely upon it," she retorted, shooting Phillip a playful grin. The smile made his heart flop, and he found it was hard to be annoyed when she had it fixed upon him. 

The pair of them had been making a bet as they walked down to the Great Hall for breakfast. It concerned the make-up Quidditch game that would be taking place the next afternoon between their two teams: whoever was on the winning side would be owed a massive favor by the loser, whatever that may have been. 

"Well, maybe there isn't any point in me making up a prize for you anyway since my team is going to win," he fired back.

Wheeler scoffed, and he grinned back over at her. "Please. Have you seen my team? Swenson hasn't let a goal past him in a week, Sparks's average time catching the Snitch is eight-point-five minutes, and I had to go to the Hospital Wing after Nichols got me with a Bludger yesterday." 

" _She_ got  _you_ with a Bludger? But you haven't been taken down by one since Fourth Year!" he exclaimed. His eyes were wide and incredulous. 

"Yes, and this one knocked me into a ten-foot-drop," Wheeler announced, oddly proud for someone who was talking about being knocked off of her broom. "We are going to win, and you are going to owe me."

"And what exactly will I owe you, Wheeler?" Phillip questioned, shooting her a lopsided smirk. "Because if you want a piece of this, my body isn't on the table-" 

Wheeler wrinkled her nose, and he burst out laughing. "I'll pass," she informed him, and he grinned down at her. 

"Your loss, especially since you had a sneak peek-" 

"Shut up, Carlyle." 

"Oh, c'mon, I know you looked that night when we were sharing the tub." 

"I didn't, because I did not want to scar my vision with your hideousness," she answered primly. Her cheeks were awfully red for someone sticking her nose up in the air. 

 _"Really,"_ he drawled, moving his arms back to begin to unbutton his robes. "Well, you can't fly if your eyes are scarred, so in that case be my guest." 

He received an elbow to the side that landed with a  _thud,_ and for a moment he struggled to catch his breath. When he did, they were both grinning, and Wheeler was fighting to contain laughter. "You deserved that." 

"Yeah, alright, I'll admit it," he joked back, and for a moment he just enjoyed her smile. His own smile faded as they walked down the corridor that would lead him to the Great Hall. 

Muggle-born students and teachers alike had been facing massive amounts of tension lately. Professor Lutz had barely had a Slytherin class with more than two students the Thursday before, which had led to a lecture for Phillip's entire house. Stratton had been receiving such an intense amount of disrespect from so many students that Phillip was surprised that no one was in the Hospital Wing with a Shrivelfig shoved down their throat, and even Pureblooded Professor Barnum was being called things by her students that Phillip could not repeat, due to her Blood-Traitor status. 

The Great Hall had been a massive site for the harassment. Muggle-born students were tripped and glared at, as well as whispered about as they passed. Phillip had caught Anne repairing multiple tears and burned patches in her robes, which were already growing more faded by the day, prior to her meals. It was a strange phenomenon, however, that the more it happened to her the less inclined she was to take meals in their Common Room instead. They had been entering the Gret Hall for breakfast together for the past couple days, and he had noticed that this only seemed to intensify the harassment. 

Part of him was ashamed because he did not want to enter the Great Hall by her side anymore. 

It was nothing to do with Wheeler and everything to do with everyone else. He was worried that his presence by her side was drawing more attention, even if they were the Heads of School. But past that, he knew his friends had been noticing. They had been far less inclined to keep him in the loop on things anyway, and he knew that if they saw him with her, it would get back to his parents. There would be hell to pay if he returned home with them informed of this, but it would be worse if...

He did not want to think about the news reaching the Dark Lord, who had eyes and ears everywhere. 

It was for this reason Phillip had a nagging feeling in his chest, and he found himself giving in to it. Phillip moved to the side of the hall and knelt, moving his robes as though to expose his shoe. Wheeler came with him, and for a moment her smile faded. The change in her face was so quick that Phillip thought he might have imagined it. "What are you doing?" she asked, glancing about to make sure no one would run into him. 

Another pang of guilt rattled in his chest, which was a feeling that was becoming far too familiar. 

"My bloody laces are untied," he replied, glancing up at her. "I need to fix it, or we both know I'll trip." She let out a little scoff, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Go on without me." 

Wheeler hesitated, but then she nodded. "Right. Well, then, I'll see you in class," she replied slowly, and then she turned and entered the hall without him. 

Phillip lingered for a moment to run a hand through his hair and straighten his robes, and when enough time had passed, he too entered the Hall alone. Phillip was sure not to look in the direction of the Ravenclaw table. Instead, his eyes found Darya, who was currently peering over Avery's shoulder to read the contents of that day's edition of  _The Daily Prophet._ The front was a tableau of suffering, of Muggle storefronts broken and burning and charred bodies. Rowle and Fawley sat across from the two, shoving their faces, and it was with them that Phillip sat. 

"Morning," he greeted them as he slid into his spot, reaching for a bowl to fill with cereal.

Darya glanced up at him and sent him a sultry smile. "'Morning,' yourself," she greeted before turning back to the  _Prophet._ "Good to see you without that bore on your arm this morning." 

Phillip knew she was referring to Wheeler. He clenched the milk pitcher a bit harder than he had to, but there was really only one thing he could say, both for his own safety and hers. "It's good to be free of her," he hummed as he poured milk into his bowl. "Honestly, being Head Boy has been such a hassle lately. It takes away from time with all of you, and I'm missing everything important." 

Rosier glanced up, nodding as he shoved a piece of toast into his mouth. "You couldn' be more righ', mate," he agreed through the food. "You haven' been here for anyfin' since-" Phillip had stopped a few syllables into Rosier's rant when his eyes locked on the figure over Avery's shoulder, his own eyes meeting the narrowed brown, gold-speckled eyes that were the perfect mirror of their buzzard Patronus. Wheeler turned on her heel and began to leave the Hall, and he felt his heart drop. 

Phillip glanced over at Avery and Darya, who were both speaking gleefully as they read the paper, and Rosier didn't have enough brains to understand why he was leaving if he just stood up. Phillip could make up some excuse, say that it was--

"Mr. Carlyle," came a voice from behind him. A hand pressed to his shoulder, and Phillip stiffened. When he turned, his eyes found the face of Professor Barnum. Avery quickly folded the paper so that the corpses and the flames were obscured by an ad for Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. "Can we speak for a moment?" 

"Um, actually," Phillip began as he rose from the table, turning to face the direction of the receding curly ponytail. "I need to talk to Wheeler about-" 

"Excellent, this involves her as well," Barnum interrupted with pleasure. With that, the Headmaster clapped his hand over Phillip's shoulder and practically dragged him to follow Wheeler's receding form. "Ms. Wheeler!" She turned to face Barnum's voice, but when she saw Phillip her gaze became distant. She did not look in his direction as she moved to approach the Headmaster. "I have something to talk about concerning the both of you, if you'll follow me." He brushed past the pair of them, and suddenly Phillip and Anne were stuck walking side by side. 

Phillip struggled to catch up to her, but as soon as she realized this Wheeler began to walk faster. As they left the Hall, it became a fight to see who could go faster without running into Headmaster Barnum. At this point, Phillip was convinced that Barnum knew exactly what was going on behind him and was choosing to ignore it. As soon as the doors to the Hall closed, Barnum stopped fast and turned to face them. Wheeler stumbled straight into his chest, which might have caused him to laugh if they had been on the same terms they were before entering the Hall. 

Phillip thought about how he would not mind having her against his chest, and then suddenly all traces of laughter were gone. 

"Alright," Barnum sighed as he moved the Head Girl aside in one movement. She blinked at him as though in a daze. "I assume you both are familiar with the Seventh Year Dance?" 

Phillip was, of course. It happened every year in the middle of the school year, and it was an event that was attended in suits and gowns rather than dress robes. The dances were steamy and romantic and glamorous, according to Darya, who had been invited since Fourth Year, and Cassia who had attended since her Third. Phillip had been invited several times but had turned down the invitations. 

"Yes," Wheeler replied, raising an eyebrow. 

"Well, then you certainly know that one part of your responsibilities as Heads of School is to plan it," Barnum announced joyfully. "You will have the final say in everything from the theme to any decisions made on decor, food, and activities. The Prefects and any members of the staff are at your disposal. As it is October, and you must have all of the vital planning done by the beginning of November, I figured it was time to inform you. Feel free to ask me or Professor Barnum about anything you like concerning the dance-- Actually, ask my wife. Last time I was asked to help set up a school event, I slept on the couch for a month at her insistence." With that ominous sentence, Barnum turned around and left the pair of them sitting there in a daze. 

Phillip blinked, and he turned to face Wheeler. His mouth was open to speak, but before he could, she had insisted, "I don't want to hear it." 

He winced, running a hand through his hair. "Wheeler, I-" 

"I really don't Carlyle. You don't have to say anything, especially after you said exactly what you should have." Her brown eyes were distant and cold, and her voice reminded him of the steely blade of a dagger as it cut into his heart. 

"What?"

He could see every streak of gold in her eyes as she stared at him, like loose threads in a tapestry in the way they jumped out at him. "If you didn't mean what you said you should have," she declared in a quiet but authoritative voice. "I'm not like you, or Cassia or Darya. I don't have a mansion, I have a flat with my brother in Hogsmeade above the bar where we both work. I don't have a family name that has meant something for hundreds of years. We're called 'wheeler' because of the business for crafting wheels that stayed in my family for six generations. I'm not some exotic beauty, and I don't have the whole school falling at my feet. You should mean what you said to them." 

Her words felt like someone was slicing his chest open slowly. "Wheeler, no," he said quietly. His voice was soft and submissive. 

"There isn't room in this world for a friendship between us," she whispered, stepping closer to him. He could smell lilac and wand polish now that she was standing so close, and it took all of his self-restraint not to brush a lock of brown hair from her eyes. "Being seen together could get you killed the way that I likely will be before this war is over." A gasp escaped his lips, and he looked down at her with aching eyes. "Don't tell me I'm wrong or I'm being dramatic because your friends were laughing about the slaughter of a pair of Muggle children and their Muggle-born mother, as well as everyone else on their street. It's dangerous for you, and it could get me attacked. So you said the right thing. Now we've just got to start living it." 

"But we're partners," he murmured, his voice hopeful and firm. "We have to work together." 

"You've gone through that whole bloody handbook more times than I have, and we both know that it doesn't say anything about us needing to be friends," she replied quietly. "We don't have to be anything... We can't be anything." 

"But I don't- Wheeler, what about everything else?" he asked quietly. "What about the bet, or practicing Charms together tonight?" 

"I can't tonight," she replied, and she looked away from him. At first he wanted her to look back, but then she said, "I'm going out with Swenson. He asked me out on a study date and I said yes." 

That hurt much more than it should have, and it was the final blow. He blinked several times, processing... Swenson. The attractive Ravenclaw Keeper whose eyes followed Anne everywhere, the way he wished his could. The one who had the privilege to admire her up close rather than afar through stolen glances. 

Someone who could treat her the way she deserved. 

"Right," he whispered. "I'll just... I'll ask someone else for help."

"I'm sorry, Carlyle," she murmured, and she did not look up at him. "This is just the way things have to be." 

There was a silence between them for a moment, and Phillip did not think it was a silence that they could ever close. And then he was walking away... Away from Wheeler, away from the Great Hall, away from everything. 


	9. The Order's Translator

**[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD) **

**Song of the Chapter: "[So Close](https://open.spotify.com/track/19GNIVLIe9CB4WL53OEEvX)" by Ólafur Arnalds**

* * *

 The Three Broomsticks was filled with customers the same way that it always was, the way that filled the tavern with the warm and homey atmosphere that made sure people kept coming back. The two Wheeler siblings were behind the counter, and as W.D. poured shots of Firewhiskey for a rowdy group in the back, he appeared to be listening to his sister intently.

When she took a moment to breathe, he took the chance to ask a question. "And what do you plan on doing, now that you've said this?" W.D. queried. His voice was soothing to Anne, mostly because her brother had never been the type to ask her loaded questions, only the kind of man who encouraged her to answer what she could without fear of judgment.

Anne paused in her task of wiping down the bar to levitate the shots over to the table. When the men saw them coming, a rousing cheer filled the room. ""I... " Anne began, hesitating. "I plan on honoring what I said. The both of us can continue to interact, but only in a professional capacity."

W.D. let out a careful nod, and his face gave nothing away as he turned to face his little sister. If Anne had a poker face then W.D. was a stone wall. "I know you trust me with your secrets," he said quietly, "which is why I want to trust you with mine. There's something I want to tell you, Annie." His eyes searched her face, and as he did the same she felt a pang. The grave tone of his voice caused her heart to race. Was something wrong? "Have you heard of the Order of the Phoenix?"

The name rattled around in her mind, but Anne could not find a matching meaning for it. "No," she answered carefully. "What is it?"

W.D. began to work on closing the pub's windows as the sun went down by using a nonverbal spell. Each one closed with a little 'thwack' to keep the cool breeze from penetrating too far into the Broomsticks.

"The Order," he began in a cautious murmur, "is a group founded to fight. Think of them as the parallel of the Death Eaters, but or the other side." Anne watched W.D.'s face in hopes of observing every inch. Though his voice was somber, his eyes held a burning passion that Anne had only ever seen in him when he was talking about Quidditch or Runes.

"I wasn't even aware that there was another side," she replied. The pub was so full that their voices were easily lost in the chatter, and Anne did not think that they would be overheard. "I thought it was just You-Know-Who against the wizarding governments."

"And that is what they want you to think," W.D. agreed, "how he wants you to think." A grim smile graced his lips as he continued. "But Barnum started the Order-"

"Headmaster Barnum?" Anne interrupted with incredulity in her eyes.

W.D. seemed thoroughly unphased by the question. That was how it had always been growing up-- Anne asked questions, and W.D. did the best he could to present the world to his sister in a logical, impartial way so that she could explore it herself to form opinions.

"No, Charity Barnum," W.D. replied. "Phineas is a member of the Order, and his illusions are excellent for causing confusion among enemies on the battlefield. But Charity's knack for nonverbal spellwork and quick aim make her possibly the fiercest duellist of our time, not to mention her talent for extremely potent, complicated defensive charms. She also knows how to keep morale among the Order high without undermining the gravity of our situation, and she is excellent at distributing resources. There is a reason that she is the Head of Slytherin."

Anne knew of Barnum's reputation as a skilled duellist, but she was shocked. Anne had assumed that the exhaustion in Professor Barnum's eyes had come from teaching duties. Now that she knew the blonde instructor was quite literally leading a rebellion, her respect for Barnum increased.

"Of course... That makes a lot of sense," Anne admitted, trying to hide the breathlessness of her voice. "But why are you telling me about this secret organization now?"

W.D. closed his eyes in an attempt to calm down, taking in a deep breath. "Because I joined."

For a moment, all was silent between the both of them. W.D. knew that Anne's mind was racing, and they both knew that when this happened, she needed time to compose her thoughts. When she finally spoke, she asked, "What does that entail for you?"

W.D. took her hands in his and moved her for a moment to stand behind the shelves of bottles. Anne tightened her crip, and before she knew it, she was holding him like she would fall if she let go.

"I mostly do intelligence work," W.D. answered as he gently rubbed circles into her palms. "I keep an eye and a running record on all travel in and out of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, and I do my best to investigate anything suspicious. I also monitor all clandestine meetings that take place here and report the discussions and their content back to the Order."

"You-Know-Who's operatives meet in the Broomsticks?" Anne repeated with massively widened eyes.

"It's the perfect place, especially for contacts located in the school, such as the children of Death Eaters who want to follow in Mummy and Daddy's footsteps," W.D. answered. He spoke about all of this with a familiarity that gave Anne the sense he had been hiding this, waiting to tell her for a long while. "I also do codebreaking of intercepted messages. A vast majority are in Runic languages as well as other magical lexicons, which the Death Eaters correctly assume very few can read. Makes me wonder what they would say if they knew that a Muggle-born was translating their communications."

W.D. tossed her a satisfied grin that allowed her to see the pride in his eyes. After a moment, Anne returned it. "You make me so proud, " she murmured as she squeezed his hands. "Are you safe.?"

"No one is, at times like these, but I'm careful," he answered in his deep, comforting baritone. "You would make a fantastic member, Anne... The fiight against corruption needs the bright, determined, and resilient, the people who can think on their feet."

"It's certainly something to think about," Anne admitted. She understood his passion now; even knowing about the Order had put a glowing ray of hope into her chest.

"Anne? W.D.?"

They glanced at one another, and then they were both off in their separate directions to continue the fight to stay on top of the pub's bustling chaos. 

* * *

Ever since their conversation a few days ago, Anne had been doing her best to avoid Phillip Carlyle. She was currently rising dangerously late in the morning and skipping breakfast to avoid seeing him (and also to get more sleep, because, for someone leading a secret revolution, Professor Barnum assigns a lot of damn homework). It was not so difficult to avoid being near him in the day.

On the other hand, it was very difficult when she was rushing around the Common Room preparing for a date.

Awkward silence filled the room as Anne scrambled about, darting from the bathroom to her desk to her bedroom several times. Anne had donned an old but well-kept green blouse that exposed her shoulders and flowed like a tunic. She wore a pair of jeans and sandals, and her hair was loose and natural around her face. Anne had even attempted a bit of makeup, and with a pair of rhinestone earrings W.D. had given her, Anne did not think she looked half bad.

The Head Girl was in the bathroom when she heard the knock on the door. Carlyle looked up from his desk as she hurried to answer it, and she was immediately greeted with the sight of Swenson. He stood before her in khaki pants and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his short hair was neat as he gave her one of his perfect smiles.

"Wow," he said warmly as he looked at her. "You look amazing."

"You don't look too bad yourself," she teased back lightly.

He laughed, but then Carlyle was speaking and Anne stiffened. "Will you be back soon, or should I leave the lights on, Wheeler?"

"You can leave them on," Swenson replied firmly before she could say anything. "Good to see you, Carlyle."

"You, too." Neither was smiling.

Anne quickly tugged Swenson out of the Common Room, and then they were walking in an awkward silence. After a moment, he spoke up.

"What was that?"

She glanced over at the Keeper, whose brown eyes were locked on her own. "What was what?" she returned, hoping maybe he wouldn't push it.

"That tension," Swenson replied. He was trying to appear nonchalant, but she could tell that their exchange had bothered him.

"We had... An argument," Anne answered, glancing in his direction. "It isn't a big deal."

"Kind of seemed like it was," he said slowly, uncertainly.

"I promise, it isn't," Anne swore. "You wanted to tell me something at lunch today?"

Swenson perked up and reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it. "Right." He swallowed. "I was wondering if you might like to do this more often?" Her cheeks warmed, and before she could say anything, Anne had already started to nod. "How's next Friday for you?"

"Ugh, I can't. We have a planning meeting for the Seventh Year Dance."

"Sunday, then?"

"I've got to supervise detention."

"Tuesday?"

"Patrolling."

Swenson frowned and looked away. "I can't..." He stared and swallowed again, releasing her hand. HIs voice was gruff, but she could sense the hurt in it. "I can't help but think that this is about Carlyle."

Her gaze softened, and Anne stopped walking to take his hands. "Eli," she hummed softly as he looked down at her. "I swear, there isn't anything going on there. We're fine, I'm just busy." She paused. "How's Wednesday?"

He slowly allowed a grin to spread across his face. "Sounds perfect," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

They continued to walk, and Anne tried to shake the cobwebs of guilt from her shoulders as she laced her fingers with Swenson's.


	10. The Amortentia

**[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD) **

**Song of the Chapter: "[The Beginning of the End](https://open.spotify.com/track/3IQPXyZk3FeEYsWyCcRUmn)" by Klergy and Valerie Broussard**

* * *

 

It hurt much more than it should have to watch Wheeler leave with Swenson. 

She had spent the hour before getting ready while Phillip tried and failed to be at all productive. It was impossible now to focus when Anne Wheeler was darting around with her soft curls completely free from their bun and her eyes excited. He had known they went out for a study date, but this was different. He had picked up on whispers from the members of the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team that said something about a dinner date, and that meant that it was serious-- Wheeler was really interested in making things work with Swenson. 

Why did it bother him so much? Phillip was not entirely sure, or more to the point he was not willing to think of the reason that this was. However, the suspicion was growing stronger, and every day spent without the tentative they had created before felt like the distance between them was growing even greater. Maybe that was the point, Phillip reminded himself. Her words replayed in his mind several times a day almost as a mantra to remind him why they were doing this. There wasn't room for the both of them to share any sort of bond, she had said. She did not want to be put at risk by him, and she did not want him to put her at risk in the war they were entering. 

The idea of fighting on the opposite side of Wheeler made Phillip feel sick. 

His inattention was grabbing the attention of his friends, as inconsistent and careless as they were. They noticed, it seemed, that an important member of their community was struggling to concentrate, and Phillip found himself blaming his behavior on his Head Boy duties several times. Phillip and Wheeler were indeed struggling to plan for the dance, a task that was daunting even without the added pressure of their strained relationship. Both were forced to stay up planning into the early hours of the morning, struggling to communicate ideas through stilted, uncomfortable conversation. 

It was during one such conversation that Wheeler proposed the theme, an idea that he thought was quite brilliant. It was half past midnight, and the fire was burning low as they struggled to sort out the details of planning committees. 

"-and finally, I will be supervising the Decorating Team after breakfast, the day of the event," Wheeler finished, glancing down at the scroll of planned events they had set up. She was dressed in the loose pair of pajama pants with a cardigan, and a few locks of curly hair fell into her tired eyes as she glanced up at him. "Does that sound alright?" 

"It all sounds perfect," he answered with a quick nod. "So, now that we've done that, I think that it's best that we move on to the more creative aspects of the dance, like the theme and decorations. What do we want to do for it, maybe a Winter Wonderland?" 

"No, they did that two years ago," Anne replied. "It was beautiful but too recent. Some of the students in our year attended it, so it won't be new enough." 

Phillip frowned. "Point taken. Costume ball?" 

"Three years ago, still a bit recent. And I do seem to recall there being a fiasco with a dragon group costume igniting." 

He let out a soft sigh and leaned back against the base of his chair from where he was sitting on the floor. "I should be better at this, I have a bit of experience with parties," he muttered.

Wheeler looked down at the paper, and then she slowly said, "What about a masquerade?"

Phillip looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. "You mean, like the ones they used to have during the time of Marie Antoinette?" 

"Sort of," she answered. Her eyes had a spark in them, and he could tell she was formulating a plan. "It would still be suit and tie, but everyone would wear masks to it. It would be mysterious, sort of glamorous, but everyone would have a very basic idea of who everyone else is." 

Slowly, Phillip began to look up at her. He nodded, and a small, sad smile slid onto his lips. "That sounds amazing," he praised her softly, writing it down. "Sort of an emphasis on glamor, high-society. I can help there." 

"Good, because past the masks, I wouldn't have the slightest idea where to begin," Wheeler answered. She was determinedly avoiding his gaze as she gathered her things, and Phillip found himself staring. Who could help it around her? He had not heard her laugh in such a long time, and the sound was one that he missed with an ache in his chest. He only saw her smiling now when she was with Swenson, and any other time she looked as exhausted and battered as he did. Phillip would have like to think that it had something to do with their Head duties, but he was fairly sure they both knew this was not so. 

Wheeler glanced up, and then suddenly they were both frozen, drinking in the depths of one another's' eyes. His blue irises searched for the golden flecks in hers, and he drank in every detail of her face for a moment. The warm depths of her eyes, the curve of her slightly parted lips, the single curl of hair in her eyes-- every single thing, he committed to memory. Her own eyes traveled Phillip, and he could tell that she was doing the same. 

After a moment of this, Wheeler took in a sharp breath. "Goodnight, Carlyle," she whispered, which was the only sentence she had said to him outside of their Head duties for weeks. Wheeler clutched the papers to her chest, and then she was gone as if she had just been a long shadow cast by the firelight. 

* * *

Their late night affected Phillip greatly the next day, to the point that he had completely slept through breakfast and was about to be late for a double Potions lesson. Phillip cursed to himself as he rushed about their dormitory, desperately summoning the things he needed to get to class. Phillip had no time to tend to his hair the way that he normally would have, so when Phillip left the dormitory to race down the halls, his short hair was an absolutely disheveled mess. For the first time in a long time, he actually missed the Slytherin dorms, simply because they were so close to the Potions dungeon. 

It was just exactly as class began that Phillip managed to slide through the door to the dungeon, breathless and windswept as he glanced about like a madman. Almost every set of eyes in the classroom was on him, including the irises the color of cocoa that belonged to the girl sitting in the back right corner. Phillip noticed that today, Wheeler's nose was bright red, and she held a tissue in her hand by the pocket of her robes-- she had a cold. There was a hint of what looked like amusement on her lips for an instant, but it vanished so quickly that he must have imagined it. 

"Kind of you to join us, Mr. Carlyle," Professor Everidge drawled, glancing over at the Head Boy. "Please have a seat, and then we can begin." 

The only open seat was in the back, besides Wheeler herself. She seemed to realize it before him, and her eyes widened a fraction of an inch before resuming their familiar tiredness. Carefully, Phillip moved to sit in the back at the open spot. "I'm sorry," he whispered in her direction. Wheeler did not look at him, only resolutely fixed her gaze on Everidge. Phillip waited for a moment, then turned to do the same. 

"Alright, class," the professor announced, gesturing to instructions written out on the board. "Today, we will be examining the Amortentia that you have attempted. The potion is extremely difficult to make, but so long as you all came once a day to stir the potion as needed this week, you should be alright. You will be studying the end result today and taking notes on its properties, and if your mixture was a failure, I expect you to write me a foot-long essay on exactly where you went wrong, due tomorrow. However, this essay is not to be done in class. Rather, share some of the potion from a classmate who has succeeded in their potion to observe its properties. If all else fails, you all shall take a little bit of Miss Wheeler's, which I happen to know turned out perfectly." 

Phillip felt a sinking feeling in his chest as he realized that he had not come the night before to stir his potion counterclockwise. In Advanced Potions, even the slightest error was enough to ruin a potion.

Wheeler stood to walk towards the closet where their Amortentia had been simmering. Even despite her tired eyes and the sniffles that Phillip had heard coming from her direction throughout the class, her countenance was glowing. Wheeler was an incredible Quidditch Player, but her skills in Potions went unrivaled in their class. She seemed to have an intuitive understanding of the nature of all of the ingredients and how they interacted, and he would often find her improvising to tamper with the balance of the potion to produce enhanced or altered results. This was always something that Everidge took the chance to comment upon, but Phillip knew that she did not do it for the praise. 

She did it because it was fast and precise and intense, just like her. 

Wheeler waited in front of him to fetch her potion, and sure enough, as she fetched her dented golden cauldron he could see the steam rising from it in spirals. Phillip reached for his cauldron as she passed and was greeted immediately with the potent smell of something that could only be described as scorched black licorice. He struggled to hold his breath as he carried the cauldron to the back, where there was a massive tub sink that was intended for ruined potions. There, Phillip turned his cauldron upside down only to be greeted with black sludge that was the consistency of grits. When he had emptied that, Phillip filled his cauldron with water and left it to sit, letting out a sigh as he returned to his seat. 

As Phillip slowly seated himself, he hesitated. He fought with himself over how to approach the situation while Wheeler resolutely began to study the liquid that was the color of mother-of-pearl. Finally, Phillip hesitantly cleared his throat. 

"Do you..." Her gaze did not flicker up to meet him, and Phillip winced. "Do you think that we could share?" he finally asked. "I'm really sorry, but mine is completely ruined." Phillip had been even more 'out of it' than usual yesterday, and he tried not to think about why. 

Wheeler deemed him worthy of a reply this time before she glanced down at the mixture. "Sure," she answered as a few wisps of her hair fell into her eyes. Wheeler moved over so that the cauldron was between them, and she began to put a few drops into a bottle. 

Phillip hesitated as he moved closer to the cauldron, and he peered inside Wheeler's rather dull golden cauldron. The potion gleamed as it simmered between them, and Phillip remembered what he had been told about the fumes that spiraled up in loose curls, just like the hair of the Ravenclaw next to him. They were rumored to smell like the things that were attractive to the individual, and Phillip could not help it; he was curious. Phillip took a deep breath of the mist and closed his eyes.

The first thing he smelled was warm apple cider, the kind that they served at the Three Broomsticks for a few weeks around Halloween. He could almost taste the cinnamon and cloves on his lips as he breathed it in, and Phillip knew that he would be craving it for weeks. Another scent that seemed to leap out at him took a bit more defining, but he figured it out after a moment. It was salt in the air, the taste of being near to the sea and on the coast. It reminded him of the beaches and coves that were located out beyond the walls of the manor, where he had snuck away from his father and his mother as a child. The third smell was so easy to identify that it might as well have been right in front of him. 

Phillip smelled lilacs. 

His eyes flew open, and Phillip dropped the glass flask he was holding. It landed with a thud, and before Phillip could catch it, the vial had rolled off the table to shatter on the ground. Beside him, Wheeler muttered an incantation under her breath, and the shards of glass began to repair themselves. The reassembled flask rose to rest on the table beside Phillip's hand, which was currently grasping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles were white. 

"Are you alright?" Wheeler asked from beside him, but she still did not look up. Phillip was grateful for this for once. 

"Yeah, I..." he stammered. "It only smells rather sharp, is all." Phillip ran a hand through his already-messy hair, grateful that he had the steamy dungeon to blame for the redness in his cheeks. 

Wheeler raised an eyebrow. "I see," she said slowly. "I guess I wouldn't know." 

Phillip's eyebrows shot up into her hair. How was she being so nonchalant with this potion? Even though she probably did not... Smell something about him, it was still a rather intimate aspect of the solution. "Why not?" he asked slowly. 

Wheeler gestured noncommittally to her nose, muttering, "Can't smell a thing with this cold."

Phillip felt himself relax. Okay... So she would not know to connect the smell of the potion to his sudden movement, then. But she also would not smell the things that allured her, the same way that he had... Would she smell him, he couldn't help but wonder? There was a pang in his chest as he realized she would probably smell Swenson. Whatever, it was not worth speculating. He would never know what she could smell in it, and the likelihood was that she never would either. There was no reason to be feeling just slightly disappointed. He calmed down, relieved that Wheeler had not seen right through him. 

As Phillip moved some of the potion into the vial, he felt panic fill him. This meant that he was attracted to her... To Wheeler. He had known deep down for a while that this was true, but he had hoped it was not anything deeper than some random, strange thought that popped into his head every once in a while. As Phillip began to apply the vial to the flame with tongs, he felt his stomach churn. He was attracted to her, and she was with Swenson. 

More than that, he was attracted to her when he wasn't  _allowed_ to be, when she did not want him to be. Worse than that, Phillip knew it was more than an attraction or an infatuation. She had lingered in his head for months, and he wanted more... He wanted to know her and to spend time with her in ways that they never had before. Phillip knew that she was better, so much better than any of the people who claimed to be his friends. When their minds brushed together, the way they had all of those weeks ago with the Patronuses... It had been something beautiful. 

For the rest of the double Potions lesson, Phillip was perhaps the most inattentive he had ever been in class before. He nearly broke the flask again, accidentally started a small fire with his scroll of observations (meaning that he had to begin again), and nearly bumped into Wheeler at least six times. Luckily, the Head Girl was able to quickly dart out of the way each time, closely avoiding the collisions until the bell rang to signify the end of the class. Phillip was like this for the rest of the day, and the mountain of homework only grew thanks to his inability to even so much as put a dent in it during class. But Phillip did not know what to do, and his mind was racing.

She deserved so much better than someone who stood idly by while his friends tormented Muggle-borns. She deserved more than a scared boy who had spent his whole life being told that he was better than her when really he knew that he did not deserve anyone like her. She deserved someone who could walk with her in the hallways and sit by her in the Great Hall, who could promise her that they would never let harm come to her. 

Anne Wheeler deserved someone who could love her without hurting her at the same time, and Phillip knew that he could never be safe for her.

The rest of the day seemed to fly by, mostly because Phillip was dreading the return to the Common Room. He knew it was hardly her fault that he was in love with her, but he did not know how he could look at her without having it written on his forehead. And he did not want to do that to her, to shove any of the weight that he was now carrying on his shoulders onto hers. No, he decided. Better to starve it off in secret than to force her to think about feelings that she did not requite. That would be cruel, and that would be selfish-- it would hurt the both of them, and Phillip was not willing to do that to her. Besides, he reasoned as he walked into the Common Room. Maybe... Maybe he had it wrong, and it just was some stupid crush. Maybe he was exaggerating something that wasn't even that big of a deal. 

Those thoughts were thrown out the window when Phillip entered the room to find Anne Wheeler standing in the center of it with the expression of someone who had seen a ghost. 

The girl seemed to be held up through sheer force of will alone, and Phillip thought a gust of wind might knock her over. Anne's face was ashen and her eyes were glassy and hollow, and there was a letter clenched in her fist with so much force that the paper was tearing. As Phillip entered the room, she looked up at him, but she did not see him really. It was the most horrible thing that Phillip had ever seen, because, for one terrible moment, Anne Wheeler's beautiful mind was not moving at all. 

"Anne," he exclaimed, rushing to her side. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and where Anne would have normally protested she instead shrank into him. She was shaking, he realized as he quickly moved her to a chair. Her legs seemed to collapse under her as she fell into it, and Phillip knelt before her to look into her eyes. "What happened?" 

Anne opened her mouth, but for a moment she did not seem to be capable of saying anything at all. Then, the words fell from her lips like the first few drops of rain, slowly and then all at once. 

"It... It's my brother. He-"

Her voice broke, and Phillip's heart did with it.

"He's gone."

 


	11. The Fugitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thanks so much for your continued support of this story. Unfortunately, I will be unable to write from June 16- June 22.My writing ability right before or after is a bit more arbitraty, but I will have no way to do so on those dates. Before I leave I will make sure to put out as much content as I can, and while travelling I will always have a notebook, so rest assured that I am still working to make these stories the best you can be for all you wonderful people. :)

[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD)

**Song of the Chapter: "[Warrior](https://open.spotify.com/track/5J2Oh24F1hXcVh5rJMDBHb)" by AURORA**

* * *

 Shattered glass scraped underneath their feet as Anne and Carlyle approached the Three Broomsticks in the dark of the night. There was a crowd of people gathered around the establishment, talking and speculating about what had happened. Anne struggled to listen, but Carlyle looked down at her with those beautiful eyes. 

"Don't," he murmured, gently resting a hand on her shoulder in a manner that was far more comforting than it should have been. "It will only make it worse." 

Anne nodded slowly, hollowly. Normally, she would have jerked forward and knocked his hand from her shoulders, probably coupled with a warning remark. But right now, Anne was barely able to stand, and the warmth of his hand was giving her strength. 

Anne and Phillip finally came to a stop before the Broomsticks, and her eyes slowly traveled the scene that was spread out before them. It was not, she realized, the Broomsticks that had been damaged. It was the apartment upstairs, the one which she shared with W.D. 

The curtains were torn as they drifted through the panes of broken glass, and they appeared to Anne like fingers grasping for her, attempting to lure her in. Anne could not see a single window that remained unbroken. Glass littered the ground around them, as well as many of their things: there was a pile of splintered wood where the chest that had belonged to Anne's mother had been thrown out the window, and several piles of W.D.'s mutilated translating books were scattered on the path with pages drifting away like tumbleweeds, clearly ripped from the books in chunks. 

Above it all, the Dark Mark writhed in the sky, with the skeleton's empty gaze leaving Anne to wonder if her brother was as hollow and lifeless as it was. 

Anne had not realized that there were tears in her eyes until the cold wind forced them free. Warm liquid poured down her cheeks, and Anne took in a sharp breath. Carlyle looked down at her, and his eyes were melted pools of horror and concern. 

Slowly, he pulled her into an embrace, and Anne stiffened against his chest. "I... Th-this isn't... Isn't safe for... you," Anne gasped, but he only wrapped his arms around her frame. 

"Do you honestly think I give a damn about my safety right now, Wheeler?" he asked quietly, and Anne melted against him. 

Sobs shook her whole body as Carlyle carefully rocked her in his arms, and Anne rested her head against his firm chest. She could feel her tears soaking into his robes, but he did not make any move to pull away. Instead, he rubbed her back in comforting circles, whispering, "Shh... It's alright. It's going to be okay." Anne did not know why, but part of her believed him. 

Anne did not know how long they sat there, locked in an embrace. However, after a while of it, Anne could feel herself calming down. The warmth of his arms made her feel safe, secure, just for a moment. The sobs stopped, and after a while, she slowly managed to compose herself. 

"I... I think I'm alright," she murmured, and Carlyle obediently took a step back. HIs robes had a large stain on them from her tears, but he did not even look down. HIs eyes were locked on her. 

"Ms. Wheeler," came a voice from beside them, and Anne turned to find herself face-to-face with Charity Barnum. The woman had a grim look on her face as her eyes met Anne's. "We have much to discuss... Will you come with me, please?" Her voice was not unkind, but it was serious. Something about it calmed Anne.

"Yes," she murmured, moving to follow Professor Barnum. Carlyle glanced between them, concerned, but Anne shook her head at him. She attempted a sort of strained smile his way, which he nodded and returned. Anne turned back to Barnum, and then they were walking away from the Broomsticks and along the path that led towards the place where they could view the Shrieking Shack. 

"Are you aware," Barnum quietly asked, her voice gentle and firm, "of the activities your brother was engaged in regarding-"

"-The Order of the Phoenix?" Anne finished. "Yes, I know of them. That's what this is, isn't it? The Death Eaters found him." 

"That they did," the woman continued, resting a comforting hand on Anne's shoulder. Anne was reminded of the gesture that Phillip had repeated as they approached. "But he did not go down without a fight- in fact, he did not even go down." 

Anne's gaze snapped up to Professor Barnum, and her eyes were filled with hope. The woman gave her a gentle, careful smile. "When your brother first joined us," Charity began, "we gave him a Portkey, in the form of an old pocket watch that he could have in his pocket at all times. Upon use, it transported him to the caves in the mountains outside of Hogsmeade." 

Anne pressed her hands to her lips, and warmth filled her chest as she ran the words through her mind. W.D. was alive, that was what she was being told. Her brother was okay. 

"W.D. is one of the boldest spellcasters I know," Professor Barnum said firmly. "He managed not only to stave them off but also to rescue a large number of translations from them so he could continue his work. Undoubtedly, the Death Eaters will now begin new codes. But your brother is a clever man, and he will be able to keep up with them." 

Anne felt the joy of the realization fill her. "Can I see him?" she asked softly. 

Professor Barnum's smile changed to one of sympathy. "No, my love," she murmured. "You may correspond with him, if you wish, but only through the Floo Network and only using the fireplace in my office or Phineas's. These are the only two that we know are enchanted to the point that the Death Eaters may not monitor them. If you go to see him, you could be followed. Surely now, more than ever before, you will be under observation... They all want your brother captured and punished." 

Anne drew in a sharp breath. "What is the official story," she asked quietly, "of what happened?" 

Charity winced, and Anne felt her muscles tense. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Barnum answered." has many followers in high places, both in the Ministry-" 

"-and _The_ _Daily Prophet_ ," she finished. "So..."

"They will most likely name him a traitor," Charity finished, and Anne could feel her hands balling into fists. 

"That is absolutely ridiculous," she spat. "What could they possibly say about him? That... That...." 

"That he was living in Hogsmeade monitoring the students of Hogwarts and their movements," Charity said quietly, "most likely planning an attack."

Anne felt her heart sink. "But he would never."

"And you know that, and that is all that matters," Charity said firmly. Her eyes shone as she spoke. "Keep your chin high, Anne Wheeler. People will gossip because that is what they do. But the truth will come out in the end, it always does." 

Anne nodded, and she glanced down at her feet. "And what about school?" she asked quietly. "I know that a large portion is paid for by scholarship, but..." Without W.D., Anne was not sure how she would continue to afford attendance. And with nowhere to return to, she would be alone completely.

"The members of the Order take care of one another," Charity said firmly, and she gave Anne's shoulders a light squeeze. "You were the first thing W.D. wanted to talk about upon joining. Phineas and I have a house, under the Fidelius Charm, from which the order is operating. It was owned by my parents before their passing, so the place is rather ghastly in its furnishings, but it is large. Many Order members already stay there, and there is a place for you there, if you would like it." 

Anne nodded slowly, and she offered Charity a tight smile. "Thank you for your generosity," she said quietly. 

Charity nodded, looking down at the girl who stood before her. "You are a brave girl, Anne, and he is proud of you. He hoped to fight by your side one day, and when that day comes, I would not want to be one of those who stands in your way." 

Anne offered Charity a little smile. "I fear for them, too," she murmured. "W.D. and I.. We've fought together our whole lives, in a way. After all that, I like to think that the battlefield would be as familiar as coming home."

"And then," Charity murmured, her own smile growing, "there will be no need to live in the shadows of a fight anymore... Only room to grow."

* * *

The next few days were quite possibly the most difficult that Anne had ever faced in her time at Hogwarts. No one at the school had the slightest idea what 'discreet' meant, so of course, any time that anyone had a secret, the whole school could be heard bandying it about further. Normally, this would not have been any great bother to Anne, but now that the dark influence of You-Know-Who was spreading, the same treatment that had once been given to idle gossip was now also assigned to the dark, macabre retellings of the activities of the Death Eaters. 

Everyone knew of the attack at the Broomsticks, but the retelling had been twisted so many times that Anne was sure there were probably at least thirty different reports of what had gone on. The first day following the incident,  _The Prophet_ had released an article about W.D. Wheeler, the dangerous pedophile who had been stalking and tracking the movements of the students in Hogwarts for his own exploitation. The Dark Mark's presence had been mysteriously written out of the article, as had the presence of any Death Eaters.

That first day, the whispers had followed Anne anywhere and everywhere she went. When she and Swenson sat at the Ravenclaw Table, any requests to pass food were ignored, and no one sat within three feet of them. Anne could hear the jeering and mockery that came from the Slytherin table, and once or twice when she looked over she was met with laughter and spitting. Phillip Carlyle was nowhere to be seen, a fact which irked Anne more than she cared to admit, even when he informed her later that he had been doing his Transfiguration homework. Swenson walked Anne to all of her classes, and though he tried to keep up a conversation, Anne was unable to engage him in it. 

When the weekend arrived, Anne was more relieved than anything. It was time alone, time to work at the Broomsticks and on homework while everyone had their own business to occupy themselves with, not hers.

 At first, the shift went perfectly. Anne relished the work, running orders back and forth and working as a waitress. The money she made, as Charity had informed her, would be put towards her schooling, but whatever Anne did not make would be made up by the Barnums. She did not want to put that kind of strain on anyone, even though she had been told numerous times that they could afford it. She liked the work, and it was good for her-- there was a rhythm to it, and it kept her from thinking about W.D. She had written her brother with Charity's owl that could not be tracked, but he had not been able to reply thanks to the amount of surveillance the school was enforcing. 

The work wasn't easy today. People knew who she was, and many said as little as possible to her. Tables fell silent when she approached, and people seemed relieved when she left. However, after a while, the customers would warm up to her presence, and she was able to get in a joke or something that would produce smiles. By noon, most of the people at the bar had relaxed to her presence, and Anne felt real hope. 

The bell jingled to signal the arrival of a new group, and Anne looked up. Her heart sank to her chest as her eyes found the group: Avery, Cassia, Darya, Rosier, Rowle, and Carlyle. They were laughing and talking about something, and Anne could hear Cassia's laugh ring out over everything like a bell. 

She could hear Phillip's laughter, too, a sound which made her homesick for someplace she could not go. 

He looked up at that instant, and their eyes met. Anne's hands had frozen on the glass mug she was wiping down, and the laughter immediately died in the blue irises that met her own. 

Cassia looked up, too, and a smirk began to play on the girl's lips. She muttered something to the rest of the group as they moved to sit down in a corner booth, and the malicious leering spread like an infection among them. Anne turned and breathed in, setting down the mug in favor of taking the pen and pad she used for orders. Slowly, with the dread growing in every step she took, Anne approached the table where the group of Slytherins sat. 

"How can I help you today?" Anne asked quietly, looking anywhere and everywhere but in the direction of the Head Boy. 

"Oh, look, she's wearing a uniform," Darya commented with a little, amused laugh. She spoke as if Anne had said nothing at all and she was commenting on the antics of a particularly foolish child. "How... Quaint." 

Anne heard the laughter of the group, and she could feel eyes travel down to the yellow dress and white apron that she wore. It took all of her self-control not to cross her arms over her chest... And Anne could do nothing. She had been lucky not to be dismissed from the pub in the first place, seeing as there was the potential that she could be even worse for business than the report in the  _Prophet_ had been. 

"Fits just right, though," Avery purred, reaching out to touch Anne's side. She took a sharp step backward, and the laughter began again. 

"Avery," Carlyle's voice came, clearly in warning. 

"Relax, Carlyle," Avery hummed as he looked up. "I won't do anything that gets us in trouble."

Anne's heart was pounding and her blood ran cold as she looked at Carlyle. For a moment, there was anger in her eyes and despair in his. She did not need him to defend her, she would do her job and do it well despite their antics. She needed it, now more than ever. 

"What can I get you-" 

"Well, since you asked," Rowle chortled, causing more raucous laughter. 

"-to drink?" Anne finished coolly, turning the page in her notepad.

For a minute, Anne thought the worst was over because they actually listened. She wrote down the orders for butterbeers, pumpkin juice, and a cup of warm cider for Carlyle which she only asked as a formality. She had seen him arrive back from Hogsmeade with it enough to know it was his favorite. However, when she turned to go, Cassia grabbed her wrist and Anne stiffened. "Be quick, would you," she said serenely, pretending as though she did not have Anne in an iron grip. "And you'll be delivering them by hand." 

Anne let out a breath as Cassia released her and returned to their conversation as though nothing had happened. She fled the table with a racing heart, and when Anne had reached the safety of the bar, she leaned against it for a moment and rested her head in her hands. 

After taking a moment to breathe, she rose up and began to make the drinks. Anne could feel eyes on her, and every time she glanced up, her eyes met the deep blues of Carlyle's which were currently seas of conflict. She stared into them, for a moment, then slowly shook her head before she approached with the newly made drinks. 

"Ah, she's back," Darya crooned. "I always prefer my dogs come when called." There was more laughter as Anne forced herself to keep a straight face. 

"You know, this is the way that things should be," Cassia hummed. "She's in her place, and it suits her. Mudbloods aren't meant to be practicing magic, and they sure as hell aren't meant to be lording around over everyone as Head Girl." 

Before, the teasing had been cruel, but now it was coming with an icy edge that caused goosebumps to rise on her skin. As Anne moved to give Avery his drink, she felt his eyes climb up her body, and her heart dropped into her stomach. Across the table, there was a crash as Carlyle dropped the empty steels cups that always sat on the table in case of coffee, and Avery looked away long enough for Anne to move past. 

When she set Cassia's pumpkin juice down, the girl seemed to be thinking as she looked Anne up and down. The blonde Sixth Year had a gleam in her eyes that sent a thrill of desperation through Anne. She needed to get away, this was the last cup and then she could go. 

Anne set down the cup, but before she could turn, Cassia had said, "In fact, the place for creatures such as you is kneeling at our feet." 

Before Anne could say or do anything at all, Cassia had reached out and shoved Carlyle's glass of cider off of the table. There was a commotion of shattering glass that caused all to look over at them, and Cassia's eyes were locked on Anne's.

"Clean it up."

Anne took in a slow, sharp breath, and then she slowly said, "I do not have to-" 

In an instant, Cassia had Anne's wrist in a grip that allowed her nails to dig into the skin. The rest of the table watched with greedy eyes, hungrily watching the scene before them. Anne did not look at Carlyle as she cried out in pain, all too aware of the fact that she had left her wand back behind the bar. 

"Kneel, you little whore," Cassia repeated, twisting Anne's arm so that she had little choice but to. A gasp of hurt escaped her lips as she knelt on the floor in the puddle of cider. Cassia let go, and her arm throbbed. Several sharp nails had punctured Anne's skin, and little drops of blood were welling up there. "There we go," she purred. "Now... Don't make me say it again. Clean it up." 

Anne did not know what else she could do. The girl's eyes told Anne that if she did not, she would be cursed... And there was no possible way that she could hope to defend herself without a wand against a whole able of future Death Eaters. 

Anne tugged a rag from the waist of her apron. Humiliation welled up in her throat as she averted her gaze and began to mop up the spill, delicately plucking away pieces of broken glass with her fingers. The members of the table began to laugh, but then Anne heard a voice. 

"Stop it." 

Anne looked up to find Phillip Carlyle looking at her with fire in his blue eyes, and her own eyes widened. "Stop it, now." 

Anne was frozen in place as the rest of the table turned to look his way. "Carlyle," Avery said in a warning voice. His eyes were beginning to narrow. "What are you-" 

"I'm telling you to stop this, now," Carlyle interrupted, turning his gaze on Avery. The boy flinched at the intensity that he was receiving from those eyes, the eyes that held Anne captive whenever they met hers.

"You're out of line," Darya spoke up slowly, turning a gaze of blistering cold onto Carlyle. 

"If you don't have the stomach for this, then-" Avery began, but Carlyle clearly would not hear any of it. 

"It's not about stomach, Avery, it's about the fact that I'm not a goddamn sadist." Carlye stood, and he approached Anne. For a moment, as he towered over her with those eyes, Anne was actually afraid. 

And then, he was offering her his hand. "Get up," he murmured softly, his voice quiet and gentle in a way that she had only ever heard it with her. 

Anne looked to him, and her brow furrowed slightly. Slowly, Anne rose, but she did not take his hand. She stood by herself, and then before she knew it Anne was turning on her heel to leave. 

Anne strode behind the bar, the front of her skirt dripping wet, and then she turned and shoved open the door to the back room, where they kept all of the barrels of drink. The door swung shut behind her, and Anne let out a breath as she yanked off her soaked apron with one hand and used the other to pull her hair free of its bun. The curls fell loose in a tangle down her back as Anne struggled to breathe, to calm her racing heart. 

The door swung open again, and then shut, and Anne whirled about to find herself much too close to Phillip Carlyle in the crowded back room. 

Now that the door was shut, The crowded room was only lit by the late afternoon light from a single, frosted window. The barrels took up most of the space and left only a tiny aisle between the shelves and the window, with barely enough room for two people to stand side-by-side. Anne's eyes met those of Phillip Carlyle, and she refused to let herself drown in them. 

"How dare you," she whispered, and then slightly louder. "How dare you." 

"You couldn't do anything without losing your job," he answered coolly, and now there was a confidence in his gaze that gave her goosebumps again. 

"Maybe not, but I was riding it out, I was fine," Anne retorted. They both knew that was a lie, but her pride was seriously injured. 

"Oh, were you?" Phillip countered, taking a step towards her. "Forgive me, because from where I am standing it didn't bloody look like it." 

"I'm not some  _damsel_ in need of  _saving_!" Anne burst, backing away from him as her eyes flashed. "I don't want to be used as a tool to inflate your ego, I don't want you to treat me like I'm weak since my brother-" 

"I didn't do it because you're weak!" he burst, closing their distance again. Anne could smell apple cider spices and pine soap as she glared up at him. "I did it because you're so bloody strong, you'd let them use the Cruciatus Curse on you before you'd accept help from me!" 

"Oh, so you knew I didn't want your help and you did it anyway!" 

"Yeah, I did, because no matter how hard you insist on punishing yourself for no reason, I know that you don't bloody deserve it!" 

Their voices grew in volume, overlapping in shouts, and Anne continued to move back as Phillip moved forward. Suddenly, her foot rammed into the bottom corner of one of the shelves, and Anne was falling backward. 

His arms shot around her waist to catch her, but her momentum dragged her forward and him stumbling along. Her arms shot around his neck to hold herself up, which only tugged him closer to her as they both crashed into the back wall. Anne was pressed against it, and she could feel the cold glass of the window through the thin yellow dress as she looked up at him. 

They were close, so close. From this distance, Anne could count the shades of blue she saw in his eyes... Cerulean, azure, periwinkle, indigo. The light that came through the frosted window cast sharp shadows along his jawline and one of her hands had slipped up to his hair as they fell, ruffling it to so it was windswept. For a moment, she could not breathe... Even if she did, she knew that she would smell balsam fir needles and cinnamon. 

One of the warm arms around her waist rose to her face, gently stroking her messy curls. Neither moved, neither breathed as he tangled his fingers in her hair, cupping her cheek carefully. It was as though they were both made of glass, and each was terrified of breaking the other. Anne had never known her heart to beat so fast... She was certain he could hear it. 

Carlyle swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Merlin, Wheeler," he breathed in such a soft, awed voice that Anne almost forgot how to take in air altogether. Her eyes flickered to his lips, and suddenly he was gently moving to rest his forehead against hers. For a moment, they stood there, forehead to forehead. His other hand moved to gently brush her cheekbone with his thumb, and for a moment Anne was certain that he was going to lean in. Everything in her wanted,  _needed_ him to lean in. 

And then he let out a sharp breath, taking a step back. "No." 

Anne's heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, and she gasped as soon as they were parted. He had yanked the pine and cinnamon from her lungs, and now she could breathe again... Anne tried not to think about how much of her longed to be dizzy from lack of air again. 

His face was bright red as Anne quickly brushed past him. "Wheeler, I-" 

"No, you're right," she mumbled as she grabbed the soaked apron from where it had fallen on the floor of the room. "I'm with Swenson and we were arguing, and this is just... Just carried over tension. You and I aren't meant to be in any sort of relationship, especially not-" Her voice broke, and Anne blinked several times, taking a deep breath. Carlyle was watching her with wide eyes full of hurt, but before he could say anything she quickly turned to leave the room.

Anne did not go back behind the bar or back to wait on tables. She turned and walked to the front of the pub, fleeing into the freezing night air beyond. 


	12. The Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> //I'm sorry, this chapter really isn't my best and turned into more of a filler. There is some stuff that's necessary to the plot, though. I don't know what's up with my muse today, but I swear the next one will be a lot better. Thank you for your patience!

[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD)

**Song of the Chapter: "[Bitter Song](https://open.spotify.com/track/5dMmUlaJNrpl2ZZffrM1iR)" by Butterfly Boucher**

* * *

 Phillip did not see Anne that night, nor the next morning. He knew that the Ravenclaw Chaser was elusive, and she had been before. But this… This was a whole new level, something completely different. In his mind, he could not stop running over the possibilities of alternate realities in the back room of the Three Broomsticks. Everything in him had been screaming at him to kiss her, to feel those lips on his own.

But no, it would have been wrong.

Wheeler was with Swenson. They had been going out for weeks now, and everyone knew about it-- that was how any Hogwarts relationship was. No matter where you went, someone was bound to see you, and then the rumor mill would do the rest of the work.

Phillip couldn’t kiss Anne Wheeler when she was with someone else, and that was non-negotiable. It wouldn’t be fair to Anne… Wouldn’t be fair to Swenson, either. He bore no ill will towards the Ravenclaw Keeper. Who could blame him for falling for her? Phillip wasn’t one to talk, and Swenson could give her everything that Phillip could not.

But now, Phillip was starting to wonder if he was as trapped to this life as he thought he was. Yes, there was going to be hell to pay with his parents; they had already heard of the incident, and Phillip had received several furious letters demanding an explanation. These letters had become acquainted with the fire in the Common Room shortly after Phillip read them.

As each day went on, Phillip felt his heart straining more and more towards freedom. Leaving Hogwarts would be dangerous for him, there was no doubt. HIs parents were brutal, and they showed no mercy. But here, all were safe, even Phillip Carlyle. He knew that if there was any place to change sides, this was the place to do it.

Changes took place immediately, the most drastic of which was that Phillip no longer sat with the group he once had. Instead, he had taken to the habit of bringing food up to the Common Room, where he ate alone. But when he went down to fetch the food in the first place, he could feel their gazes burning into his back. In class, he heard the whispers and quiet murmurings. They did not dare to touch him, yet. Phillip had a reputation for quick, neat spellwork, and though he did not have the aim of Anne Wheeler, he was a talented duellist nonetheless. So, for the most part, they left him alone, not quite ready for any sort of confrontation.

And despite the fact that Phillip was alone, he found that he didn’t quite mind.

People weren’t exactly open to talking to him at first, so he spent much of his time with the younger students in the hallways, helping out. Every time he saw Edison, Phillip made sure to wave, and the Gryffindor always returned it. After a while of making an effort, the younger students started to approach Phillip by themselves. He couldn’t help it; he loved it, and he understood why Wheeler always made a point to do this.

It almost helped him to forget about the cold tension that hung in the air when he and Wheeler worked at their desks in the evening, the way she refused to look at him with those beautiful chocolate eyes and the way that they only managed to speak to one another in stilted sentences.

However, after about a week, a thought began to turn over in his mind. These children were going to be a part of the coming war, and they weren’t prepared for anything more than to be caught in the crossfire. The Fifth Year was when they really got to learning combat magic, and even then dueling was hardly covered. But the fight wasn’t going to wait another three or four years-- it was barrelling at them now, and even the students who had learned the basics of defensive magic needed practice. If there was anything that Avery, Cassia, and Darya had proved to him, it was that they wouldn’t be showing any sort of mercy.

It was this that occupied Phillip as he climbed out of the marble tub of the bathroom, tugging on a pair of pajama pants slowly. Once they were on, he turned to the mirror and began to towel dry his damp hair.

Professor Barnum’s hands were tied, he thought grimly. She could only teach the younger students so much-- if they went home for holiday and informed their parents that they were being taught how to fight, that could easily be turned on the school by the press, particularly the _Prophet._ If one thing had been evidenced by the attack on W.D. Wheeler, it was who had control of the press, and how easy it would be to turn that weapon on prominent figures who took their stand against the Death Eaters, particularly Charity Barnum.

Phillip was so lost in thought that he did not hear the door open behind him. It was not until a breathy “Carlyle,” reached his ears that he turned, meeting the gaze of Anne Wheeler.

“Merlin, I’m sorry, Wheeler,” he said quietly. “I should have locked the-” But she wasn’t listening to him, he realized. Her eyes were locked on his chest, and his blood went cold.

Phillip followed her gaze down to his torso, wincing as they fell upon the scars on his upper chest. Just over his heart, Phillip’s skin was scarred, clearly from burns. The skin was distorted as if he was looking at it through a fishbowl… But those scars were his reality, his to hide.

And now she had seen them.

“Wheeler-” His voice left him in a ragged breath, but she did not listen. Instead, the Head Girl was walking closer to him, not looking up from the burns. Soon, she was close enough that he could smell her shampoo, and she still did not look his way.

Instead, she stretched out her hand so that her fingertips lightly brushed the scars, and Phillip had to fight to keep back a gasp. The cool of her touch against his warm skin was… Heavenly, something that he had never felt before. In his house, touch meant pain and little else. But this…

Her fingers skimmed the surface of his skin, stopping to linger over his heart. When she looked up at him, relief washed over him in waves. Hungrily, he used the stolen moment to stare into her hypnotizing eyes.

“Your parents,” she murmured. Her lips barely moved as she stared up at him. It wasn’t a question, because they both knew she was right. Carefully, he nodded.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he whispered. “I’m alright.”

“But there are going to be more.” Her eyes are filled with pain as she stares up at him. “When they get their hands on you, after the Broomsticks.”

Phillip is silent, and her whole body stiffens as she traces the outline of one of the scars with a finger.

“This isn’t fair.” The constricted tone of her voice causes him to take in a sharp breath. She steps backward as though she has been slapped, and suddenly the absence of her touch hurts as if the burns are fresh again.

“No,” he agrees, and then he very carefully continues. “This is war, Wheeler. And even if we’re… strained, you and I need to work together. I’m not asking for friendship, but I need you to let me work with you. Because I can tell you that they won’t hesitate to do this to someone else’s child.”

For a moment, there is a glimmer of hope in her eyes as she looks up at him. Maybe things aren’t perfect, not by any means. But then, Wheeler looks just for a moment like she did a few weeks ago when they were still enjoying their comfortable, tentative friendship.

“Maybe after you put on a shirt.”

* * *

 It was shaky, and it wasn’t what it was before. Phillip could not look at her without thinking of that night, of how much every little bit of him yearned to belong to her. But she wasn’t his, he reminded himself, and so he managed to keep his distance and interact with her without speaking of it. That was all he could hope for.

Phillip still ate alone, still interacted with the students. He spent much of his time working on school, and both he and Wheeler became increasingly busy planning for the Seventh Year Dance.

Phillip felt ridiculous, planning color schemes and decorations when they were in the middle of a brewing war. He knew Wheeler felt the same way, because as they worked she grew more and more frustrated. He started suggesting they go outside of the Common Room, and they did. They went walking instead, where she did not seem quite so restless. Hogwarts was massive enough for them to be able to walk as much of the stone halls as they wanted while planning without going the same way twice.

Even if it was a ridiculous time to be planning, Phillip still held their moments close. He knew they would have to end, eventually, and he would be left without the chance to look into chocolate eyes and breathe in the flowery scent of her hair.

That day, they were walking on the fifth floor of the castle. Here, the portraits were largely from the Baroque era, and Wheeler’s eyes locked on the chubby little cherubim as they passed.

“So, for the ceiling,” she hummed. “It’s supposed to be snowing then, really thickly, too. I say we let it, but maybe change the candles.”

He watched her face as he scribbled this down on his pad, then looked up. ”Into what?” he asked slowly. “Maybe little balls of silver flame? I saw that done, once, at a concert. I think it would look elegant.”

“Wonderful,” she agreed. “And then we can hang mistletoe as decoration, too…”

Phillip had been dangerously close to thinking about how kissing her under the mistletoe might feel when he heard Swenson’s voice from behind them. “Anne!” called the Ravenclaw Keeper, and both she and Phillip turned to face him. Swenson offered them both a dazzling smile before turning to look at her. “I’m glad I caught you.”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, and a grin spread across the lips Phillip had not been thinking about. She looked so content… He glanced away, swallowing hard. It was good that they had something like that. “We were just planning for the Seventh Year Dance.”

“Well, so was I,” Swenson replied. Wheeler blinked a few times in confusion. “Wait… Eli, what-”

Before she could finish, he had carefully pulled a box of chocolate cauldrons from behind his back. They looked expensive, filled with Firewhiskey… Phillip knew the Ravenclaw preferred sugar quills or fizzing whizbees to chocolate, but the sentiment was admittedly attractive.

“Come with me?” Swenson asked her softly as he approached. Phillip stepped back, forcing himself to keep a straight face as Wheeler reached out. For a moment, Phillip thought she was going to say no… There was conflict in her eyes, and he felt a twinge of pity for Swenson. But then, she took the box and tucked it under her arm with one hand and then took his hand with her other.

“I’d love that,” she said softly, grinning at him. The way that the pair of them looked at one another made Phillip’s skin crawl.

Happy for them, he was happy for them… He wanted to go back to the dormitories and never think about this ever again.

“Fantastic,” Swenson hummed, wrapping his free arm around her waist. Wheeler stiffened for a moment, and then she relaxed into his touch. Phillip remembered the way his hands had settled around her so naturally, as if they were made to be there, and the green monster reared its head in his stomach again.

Merlin, he needed to get out of there before he exploded.

“Excellent,” Phillip hummed, clearing his throat. His voice was so calm and collected that no one would have been able to guess anything was wrong. However, Wheeler’s eyes snapped to him, and he could have sworn he saw a twinge of regret in them.

No, it wasn’t fair to anyone for him to be thinking this way.

“I’m going to go and run all of this by Professor Barnum,” Phillip informed the pair, gesturing to the list. “I think we’re about done, Wheeler. The two of you have a great afternoon.” Phillip turned quickly, trying not to listen to the sound of voices behind him, hers mixing with Swenson’s as he turned to go.

As soon as Phillip rounded the corner, he almost rammed right into Edison. The younger boy looked up at him in surprise, and then his face broke out into an easy grin. “Phillip!”

Phillip allowed a smile onto his lips, but it was a tired one. “Hey, Ed,” he sighed softly, running a hand through his hair. “What’s up?”

Edison stopped immediately and looked at Phillip, furrowing his brow. “Something’s wrong.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What’s the matter?” Phillip questioned, trying to shove his thoughts aside, but Edison shook his head.

“No… Something’s wrong with you.”

Phillip laughed to himself, letting out a breath. “Yeah… Well, it’s complicated.”

“Is it about you and Anne?” pressed the boy.

Phillip’s eyes snapped up to meet Edison’s. “What?” he stammered. “There… There’s no Anne and me.”

“Oh, so that’s the problem,” Edison replied, and there was a little hint of a grin on the younger boy’s mouth.

Phillip let out a little laugh, shaking his head. “You know, you First Years are all too smart for your own good.”

“Of course we are, we aren’t that much younger,” Edison informed him. “We just have a little ways further to go.”

The younger boy’s words swam in Phillip’s head, and a little spark occurred as the internal monologue that had been plaguing Phillip for days grasped on to them. Slowly, he felt the beginning of an idea form, and Phillip began to smile.

“Hey, Ed? There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about… Why don’t you come with me?”


	13. The Underground Warriors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> //Please know that this chapter comes with all of the love and affection of the Pika chinchilla who is sitting on my lap as I type it. :3

**[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD) **

**Song of the Chapter: "[Fire](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Pry9GbsmrIcP7irAQfusi)" by Ingrid Michaelson**

* * *

 

Anne felt like she was lying even if she wasn't saying anything at all. 

She was supposed to be happy, with Swenson, even if they were about to enter a war. Maybe they wouldn't be some fairytale, but they were supposed to protect one another and find comfort there. That she did not, no matter how hard she tried to do so. She cared about him, enjoyed their time together, and wanted to spend more in his company. But Anne was restless, straining for the sky even when the Quidditch Team was rehearsing and she could feel it on all sides. Anne found herself using any spare moment she had, even late into the night, out on the Quidditch Pitch. There, she would practice until her hands were raw, make sure that she could feel the open air beneath her feet. And yet, still... It was not enough, never enough. She did not feel the release that had been so easy to trigger once. Every time she tried and failed terrified her more because she did not know what had triggered this, what made her feel like she was trapped on the ground no matter where she was. 

All Anne wanted was her skies back. She wanted to soar and be one with the wind again so that her body found release in every movement the way that it used to. She wanted to fly away from all of this: from Hogwarts and the battle for hearts raging inside of it, from Swenson and every moment that felt like she was deceiving him even when she did not. 

From Phillip Carlyle, whose deep blue gaze haunted her wherever she went and whose touch lingered on her skin even all these weeks after the night at the Broomsticks. 

Anne wanted to fly, but she couldn't. Her dreams had changed now. Even when she left Hogwarts, she and W.D. would not be able to have a life in England, not until You-Know-Who was defeated. They could leave, go somewhere else, but Anne knew deep down in her heart that no matter where she went, the fight would not be over until the most dangerous wizard of all time was dead. England would not be enough for him, nothing ever would be. Even if she could convince W.D. to leave, which she knew she never could, there would still be people left here who could not escape. Anne could not live like that, knowing there might have been something that she could have done and did not. 

After Hogwarts, Anne fully intended to work for the Order of the Phoenix. 

So, instead of searching for relief from the things that grounded her, Anne threw herself into them instead. She practiced with the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team at least once a day, and she won games with them as they worked like a well-oiled machine. She slaved away over homework for hours every day, and when she was finished with that, Anne planned the Seventh Year dance. She and Swenson ate together every day at lunch and always arrived at classes and practice together. Every moment exhausted Anne further and left her wondering how long she could go on. She knew she would keep going until she could no longer, until she gave out. 

It was when she already as spinning way more plates than she should have been that Phillip Carlyle gave her another. 

Their relationship was nowhere near fixed, and at this point, Anne was fairly sure that it never would be. But they could be in the same room for extended periods of time, and they were able to plan the Seventh Year Ball and be fairly relaxed at the same time. Still... Whenever she looked at him, all she could think about was the way it felt to have all of the air yanked cruelly from her lungs. Everything about what had happened in the back room had felt so right... She had wanted him to keep going, wanted him to kiss her. 

Wanted him to give her a reason to run to him. 

It was through this strained partnership that he reached out to her in a way that Anne could not ignore. He approached her on a Sunday night, after a particularly grueling study session for Herbology. Anne was good with plants, yes, but she hadn't been paying as much attention in class as she should have been as of late. It had been difficult, when Anne was this sleep-deprived, to pay attention in any class but Professor Barnum's. That was one class that, though several of the Slytherins were occasionally flippant in, no one joked around in. They all knew that it could quite possibly be a matter of life and death for them. 

Anne had been studying the exact cycles of fertility in the Snargaluff plant when Phillip approached her desk, leaning against the wall beside it. Anne raised an eyebrow as he approached. "Carlyle," she greeted quietly, turning the page in her book to move on to Dragonweed. 

"Wheeler," he returned in the same soft, submissive voice she had not been able to get out of her mind for weeks. "I need to talk to you about something." 

"Then fire away," she murmured softly. Anne did not look up at him, but rather continued to keep up the pretense of studying. That had become her coping mechanism in the past few days, when she felt like everything was falling apart. She stayed in her own mind, not volunteering anything that she didn't have to. She did not look at him, because that would be giving him something... That would be giving in to the gaze that seemed to follow her everywhere now. 

Carlyle took a breath and waved his wand, and the chair from his desk moved so that it sat on the other side of hers. Carefully, the Head Boy sat in front of her with all of the cautiousness of a deer caught in headlights. He took a breath as though he was going to begin speaking, then paused. He breathed deeply, and he then moved to forge ahead. "I've been thinking a lot lately, about what's coming. After Hogwarts, for us. For everyone." 

Anne exhaled and moved to close the book. She could tell that this was something bigger than them, than what had happened in the back room. Slowly, carefully, she raised her gaze to his. The effect was immediate, electrifying. The air between them was charged as she looked into the chips of sapphire that made up Phillip Carlyle's eyes... It made her feel like a fool, and so she pushed past the tingling that seemed to crawl over her skin and spoke. "You mean about the war," she said quietly. "Against You-Know-Who." 

"Against, the Dark Lord, yes." Carlyle nodded slowly, not looking away from her gaze. His own stare was level, firm... It was stable in a way that little in Anne's life had been these past few weeks. 

"I'm sorry," Anne said carefully after a moment, gauging his reaction. "But... Are you really the best person to be talking about this?" 

They were going to be on different sides, had always been destined for different sides. Her heart ached as she thought about it, as her eyes drifted down to the left sleeve of his robes as if she could see through them. She was going to have to watch, as he wasted away and grew farther apart. It was only one of many reasons why the world did not have a place for them to exist together, as friends or as anything else. 

Carlyle visibly winced, but he did not look away. They were locked in some sort of staring contest, as if they had something to prove to each other. "I do," he answered. "Because..." He seemed to steel himself, preparing to set free something that had kept a hold over him for a long time. "Because I don't want to be on the side of the Dark Lord."

Anne felt her breath catch in her throat, and for a moment, her head spun. There were still barriers, ones that stood too tall for either of them to ever dream of crossing. Too much stood in their way, and fate seemed determined on yanking them apart. So much between them had broken that there hardly seemed to be any hope of anything surviving among the wreckage. But this was a massive change, because it meant that they weren't going to be on opposite sides anymore. They were going to be fighting together, towards the same goals. 

This meant that Phillip Carlyle had risen from the comfortable place where he had been seated, and that he was willing to fight for what he believed in. 

The Head Girl took a deep breath, something that took much more effort than it should have. Finally, after a moment, she said, "If I find out that you are lying about this, Carlyle-" 

"You won't," he cut in firmly. "I swear to you, you won't. And I'm not asking for information about anything. I'm asking for your help." 

Anne raised an eyebrow. "My... help." 

"The First Years, Wheeler," he said quietly. "And the Second Years, and Third and Fourth. How are they supposed to defend themselves against everything that's coming? Merlin, even the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Years could use practice." Carlyle's voice held a conviction that Anne could not ignore, one that was mirrored by the earnest look in his eyes. She slowly began to nod, understanding where he was going. 

"The war isn't going to wait for them to grow up," she murmured, nodding. She was following the train of his thought now, much more easily than she should have been able to. "And they're not prepared." 

"No, they're not, not even close," Carlyle answered. "And Barnum isn't in a place to help them, she already is doing the best she can." 

Anne had to keep herself from showing any indication of her amusement at the irony, but she nodded. "Yeah... Yeah, she is." Anne paused and glanced down at her books, then back up at him. "But couldn't anyone say it's dangerous? Equipping children to fight? They might abuse what they're taught." 

"Couldn't anyone say it's dangerous, letting children walk around defenseless while people are shooting curses about?" Carlyle retorted, and Anne's lips twisted into a bitter grin as she looked away. 

"Fair point," she sighed, brushing a stray stand of her hair away from her face. "And they're not idiots. They know when something's a laughing matter and when it isn't. As long as we make sure that this is voluntary, then we can know that the people coming to us are taking things just as seriously as they should be." 

A little smile slid onto Carlyle's face as she looked up at him, and her own face heated up slightly. "So you understand what it is that we need to do," he murmured. There was something new in his gaze; Anne thought it might be pride.

"Of course I do," Anne retorted, standing from her desk. "But we've got to be careful about it. Luckily for you, I have... Someone to run all of this past. But you can't be involved in it, Carlyle. Now, I've got to go, and when I get back we can talk about this all much further." 

Carlyle nodded slowly. "Right..." he said slowly. "And you're not going to tell me?" 

Anne arched an eyebrow. "Congratulations, Carlyle. Welcome to the right side of things. But until you've completely severed ties, until you've been here a while, you can't expect to be trusted as easily as you were with people like Avery." 

He nodded again, understanding. "Right," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "Right." Anne was almost to the door of the dormitory when he called back to her. "Wheeler?" 

Anne paused, glancing over her shoulder. "What?" 

He tossed her a grin that looked a bit more like something he would have done months ago. There was a hint of sadness there, but also the same sort of playfulness that had made those first weeks as Heads of School easier. "Don't miss me too much while you're gone, yeah?" 

She felt the little grin tug on her lips against her will, the first one that had been there for what felt like days. "You wish." 

* * *

It hadn't taken much convincing to secure Charity Barnum's empty office to talk to her brother. Anne had only needed to say that she missed him, needed his advice before the head of the Slytherin house had agreed. Not more than a few moments after she sent out the Professor's owl, the fireplace roared green and then her brother's head appeared there. 

"W.D.," Anne breathed out in relief, and she watched as his own mouth stretched into a smile. 

"There's my Annie," he croaked in a slightly hoarse voice. Anne scanned his face, and it caused her heart to ache. He had a split lip and a shiner, and his face looked slightly gaunt. She reached out and knelt by the fireplace, and then she gently stroked his cheek. He let out a quiet breath as he leaned into the touch. "I'm fine," he promised her, opening his eyes after a moment of relishing the contact. "It looks worse than it is." 

"If I get my hands on them-" 

"Yes, I'm sure they'll be a pile of sludge in no time," W.D. hummed in amusement. "Don't worry, if I look this bad, you can only imagine how the other two are looking in St. Mungo's." 

That caused her lips to tug upwards in a little grin. "Good," she murmured in satisfaction, reaching over to pull something out from beside her. "Look what I brought." 

W.D. laughed quietly as he glanced over at the box of chocolate cauldrons. "You're a saint, you are," he decided as he looked back her way. "But first, before I get drunk off of those. I doubt you sent me that owl just to visit." 

Anne's own grin faded as she leaned forward to rest her hands on her knees, where she was sitting on the floor beside him. "You're right," she said quietly. "W.D., I..." Anne hesitated, unsure where to start. "So much has happened." 

"Then don't start from the beginning," he suggested. She raised an eyebrow as she looked at him, only to have him explain himself further. "If there's one thing that I've learned in the Order, it's that you start with what's most pressing and you fill in the information from there." 

Anne nodded slowly, offering him a little, grim smile. "Useful information," she commented. The Ravenclaw glanced over her shoulder before looking back to him. "You know better than anyone how quickly things are progressing. It's getting more and more dangerous here." 

 "You bet it is," W.D. agreed. "I've just intercepted a new message... Heavily coded, more so even than before. It's based off of some sort of magical language, Annie, but it's never one that I've dealt with before." 

That caused Anne to frown. "But you're familiar with Mermish and Runes and..." 

"And Gobbledegook and Troll, yes, as well as several other non-magical languages," W.D. finished. "But this isn't anything like those, Anne. I've managed to figure out the basic structure of it, but this one is complex. It might even be more complex in linguistic terms than English or Arabic. I'll crack it, but it's going to take me a while. And as  I've been working on basic words, I've managed to isolate a few of the unique ones. One of them is 'Hogwarts.'"

Anne felt her blood run cold. "Have you told Barnum?" she queried. 

"I was in the middle of penning a message to Charity when your owl came," W.D. replied grimly. "But yes, things are dangerous there, and I imagine that if I were working at the Broomsticks now, more messages than ever would be being exchanged there. So yes, I understand what you mean when you say that every student of Hogwarts is in danger. Albeit, they would be in danger anywhere, and at least at Hogwarts they're under the supervision and protection of the Order... But still." 

Anne turned over the information in her mind. "That makes this more essential than ever before." 

"What?" prompted W.D. 

Anne took a deep breath. "We want to start a... Well, at risk of sounding, childish, a club," she informed her brother. "A group where we can help the younger and less-practiced students of Hogwarts learn how to hold their own in a fight." 

W.D.'s eyes flickered in the firelight as he gazed away from Anne for a moment, clearly turning the thought over in his mind. After a moment, he said, "An order of your own, among the students... Almost like an army." Anne nodded, and he turned back to her. "I understand why you approached me first, Annie, and it was clever of you to do so. You can't tell Barnum or any other faculty member, as I am sure you know." 

"No," she agreed. "If it gets back to them, it only gives the Death Eaters a way to remove valuable layers of protection from the school. If we do this, it will be on record as completely free of any ties to the school or faculty." 

"Then you're going to need to document it heavily," W.D. replied. "Make sure that your meetings are secret, and that all membership is controlled carefully." 

"That's the thing, though, isn't it?" Anne prompted. "How can we make this available to the people that need it among such a wide demographic, without letting the Death Eaters or their children at Hogwarts know?" 

W.D. seemed to be turning over the thought in his mind. "In its beginnings," he said slowly, "the Order of the Phoenix recruited as Charity Barnum reached out to trustworthy people, and they were sworn to secrecy. We all signed a ledger, claiming full understanding of the responsibility that we were assuming as well as swearing us to secrecy. If we turned over the information regarding the Order to anyone untrustworthy, we did so with the understanding that a jinx would take effect locking our tongues, and our name on the paper would turn red. This never happened of course, but it was a handy bit of spellwork. I assume you'll need to do something similar."

"So," Anne slowly continued. "Any new members would be kept completely in the dark until they had signed such a contract, and then after that they could begin to be instructed." 

"Exactly," W.D. confirmed. "And you would need a way, school-wide, to communicate the dates that you were meeting. The Order doesn't have that problem, we send messages via corporeal Patronus. But you have a unique dilemma, with little room for privacy. Honestly, the only way you would be able to do it would be by hiding everything in plain sight." 

Anne ran a hand through her hair, mulling it over in her mind. "There are bulletin boards, in the Common Rooms. It is the Head Boy and Girl's job to make sure that everything on them is appropriate and addresses the information that the students need. We could leave some type of ad for something irrelevant that contains the dates, and no one would be any the wiser." 

W.D. gave her a little nod, and his eyes seemed to glow both with firelight and with pride. "Perfect," he agreed. "That way, all of your members will have access." 

Anne hesitated, glancing away. "But where could we do this in the castle? We couldn't use an empty classroom. Even if I could get one, it would be too loud and there would only be so much room for growth."

W.D.'s lips stretched into a knowing smile. "But it's a castle of secrets, Annie," he hummed. "And I happen to know one or two." She sent him a quizzical look, to which he replied, "There is a room on the seventh floor that is rumored to be called the Room of Requirement, a room that serves any purpose that is needed so long as one walks back and forth in front of the same stretch of wall while thinking about it. It's by that one particularly strange tapestry-" 

"The one of dancing trolls?" Anne questioned incredulously. Her own smile was growing now as she shook her head. "That sounds... Perfect. If I need it to be large enough, and soundproof, will it?" 

"That, and more," W.D. replied. "I found out about it from the house-elves in the kitchens. Apparently, if you come to spend enough time eating with them and asking questions, they are willing to tell you almost anything you want to know about the castle." 

Anne shook her head slightly, grinning. "I can't believe it," she murmured. "I'm actually going to be doing this... It's something I get to leave behind when I go." 

W.D. smiled, but there was warning in his eyes. "Yes," he agreed. "But you have to be careful, sister. Promise me." 

"I swear," Anne agreed. "But I think that you have more than earned these." She began to open the box of chocolate cauldrons, and W.D. grinned. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around," he decided. "But where did you get these? They aren't cheap." 

Anne made sure to keep a straight face as she opened the package, taking one out and bringing it to the fire. "Swenson," she said carefully, and then before W.D. could say anything she popped the cauldron in his mouth. He gave her a pointed look as he chewed, and she watched a satisfied grin cross her too-thin brother's face. 

"The same 'Swenson,' W.D. asked as he finished, "that you happen to be seeing?" 

"Yes, what of it?" she asked as she worked to remove a cauldron for herself. She did not like them much, but it gave her something to do that kept her from looking at her brother. Besides, maybe her tastes had changed. 

"Nothing," W.D. said in a voice that clearly indicated it was not 'nothing.' "Only that you don't even use his first name and you've been seeing this bloke for weeks."

"I use his first name," Anne argued. "I call him Eli, I just don't with other people." 

"Which is strange, since you two should definitely be on first name terms." Anne shoved another cauldron in his mouth with a bit more force than necessary, then popped her own into her mouth. Immediately, she grimaced. It was a bit too sweet, and the chocolate dried out her mouth. Nope, her tastes had not changed. The Firewhiskey burned as it went down, but it also warmed her from the inside out. Everything was a little brighter, fuzzier, warmer... Now that, she could get used to. 

"We are," Anne argued. "It was just a slip of the tongue, W.D. Doesn't mean anything." 

"Freudian slip." 

"I don't need you interrogating my-" 

"Your what?" 

Anne gave him a look. "What do you care, anyway?"

"What do I care about my sister's boyfriends?" W.D. replied, feigning hurt. For her brother to be behaving like this, the Firewhiskey must have been affecting him already.

"Don't say that word," Anne muttered as she put another cauldron in his mouth.

"If you must know, he doesn't seem like he's... Right, with you," W.D. answered once he was done chewing. "He doesn't challenge you." 

"You're challenging me." 

"What about Carlyle?" 

Anne froze at the question, staring at W.D. with wide eyes.  "Wh-what?" she stammered. "I don't know what you're talking about. Why would you even mention him?"

"Because while we were still working at the Broomsticks, you were always talking about him," W.D. replied. "He challenges you." 

Anne glared at nothing in particular as she took another cauldron, tossing one to him. She bit into the cauldron to let the warmth spread through her again. "Yeah, too bloody much. There isn't anything there." 

"He's helping you with this, isn't he, though?" W.D. asked with a knowing look on his face. Her brother was visibly relaxed, and Anne's heart ached at the thought of him hungry and hunting with a wand.

Anne slowly nodded. "Today... Today, he told me that he wants to fight against You-Know-Who. I don't know if he's done anything else, but I think that he meant it. This was his idea." She hesitated, and then she began to speak again. "A few days ago, he told his friends to stop... Well. He broke off with them, and now he's saying this, and I think he really is changing sides. But he's alone, and I don't know what comes next." 

W.D. nodded slowly, in approval. "Have him write me," W.D. finally said. "Give his letters to Charity, and he can contact me through her owl. I can help him with this in a way that you can't, Anne. I always knew that I wanted to be fighting on this side, but there were things about joining the order that I wasn't expecting, and I can help him with how to let go of his old life."

Anne narrowed her eyes. "You would do that?" she said slowly. "You trust him?" 

"You do," W.D. replied. "And that's enough for me." 

Anne looked away, and the words that left her came largely from the warmth in her chest. "I trust him, more than I want to," she murmured. "And I wish that there was a place for someone like him and someone like me to be something. Anything." 

W.D. looked at her, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he understood. This was about the gaps between them, the way that they would be looked at. This was about the fact that they came from two completely different backgrounds, and Anne did not know if she could ever be enough. This was about the fact that fate seemed to be calling her everywhere but Phillip Carlyle, no matter where her heart wanted to go.


	14. The Keeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //So @MischievousRose informed me that the playlists I make for the stories are fun to have, so I will link them in the chapters now. XD

[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD)

**Song of the Chapter: "[Unsteady](https://open.spotify.com/track/7lGKEWMXVWWTt3X71Bv44I)" by X Ambassadors**

* * *

 

When Wheeler returned a few hours later, Phillip was found seated on the sofa in the Common Room with their Defense Against the Dark Arts tome in his lap, alongside several books that he had taken from the library. He had been sure to check out copies of the books provided to the younger students so that he could understand what they had been taught. These were the books he was poring over, and there was a scroll unrolled in his lap where he had been taking notes. 

The First Year students were mostly learning the different functions and types of defensive spells, as well as the basics of certain types of magical creatures. The Second Years had gone a bit farther, but they were learning more about magical creatures than anything else, along with the Third Years. Fourth Years were learning about situations when magical combat could be found necessary, along with basic charms such as disarming. The Fifth Years had arrived at Stunning and Impediment Jinxes, but these things would not have been covered yet in the year's coursework. Past that, a few more spells were taught, but the difference in skill levels would be one of the most difficult barriers that he and Wheeler would have to overcome with the students. 

As Wheeler stepped into the room, Phillip glanced up at her. "You're back," he commented. "I know you can't tell me everything, but if it has to do with this... Group of students, then I think it would be helpful for me to know. I've been doing some research on the curriculum, and-" 

"Ugh," Wheeler groaned, and Phillip stopped short as she turned to face him. Her eyes looked utterly exhausted as she turned her bleary stare to him, and her cheeks were flushed with warmth. "Why do you have to be so loud, Car... Carill... Ahh, bloody hell." 

For a moment, Phillip did not know how to react, and then amusement filled him. "Are you drunk, Wheeler?" he laughed softly, standing to make his way to her side. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder as she swayed dangerously, and then she righted her balance against him. 

"No," she contradicted unconvincingly, glaring up at him. Far from being frightening, this was the sort of petulant stare given by a child caught in the act of lying. "That would be... un-responsible." Wheeler nearly toppled over as she moved to try to untie her shoes, and Phillip stopped her quickly and moved to do it for her. Wheeler's hand rested on his shoulder as he crouched down to undo the meticulously double-knotted laces. "I was just talkin' to D.W. Wait, tha's not right... W.D. He says hullo." 

Phillip's eyebrows shot up as he finished untying the shoes and carefully slid them off. So W.D. was somewhere that Wheeler could reach him, then, and she had been talking to him about their plans. It made sense, and of course he would not tell anyone. But it was a piece of information that was useful, at the very least, since Phillip could already tell he wouldn't be getting any useful information out of Wheeler until morning.

As Phillip moved to set her shoes neatly by the door, a very unlike-Wheeler giggle began to leave her lips and meet the air. It caused a grin to slide onto Phillip's face because it was free of everything that had been weighing down on the girl for the past few weeks. He could tell she was spreading herself too thin, that she was dying, but there wasn't anything that he could do to save her. Anne Wheeler would save herself, and any other attempts would be unwelcome. "What's so funny?" Phillip queried, looking up at her from the place where he crouched on the floor. 

"It's like that Muggle fairytale, isn't it?" Wheeler managed to say between giggles. "Cinderella? But..." A little hiccup escaped her full lips, and Phillip grinned and shook his head. He could tell she would not remember much of this in the morning, so he would allow himself a moment to marvel at how she somehow managed to be adorable even when she was clearly shitfaced. "...I think it's backward. I think you're supposed to put the shoe on my foot." 

"Am I, now?" Phillip hummed as he stood, wrapping his arm around her shoulders again as he began to walk towards the staircase to their dormitories. "But if I do that, then you'll be wearing shoes to bed, and I think that that would be unsanitary." 

"No," Wheeler immediately groaned in protest, struggling weakly against his hold. "I don'... Want bed. I'm not tired." 

"Yes, you are," Phillip hummed soothingly, focusing on what was ahead of them. "You'll feel so much better in the morning." 

"But I feel better now!" Wheeler argued, stopping in her tracks. She refused to move an inch, and she was surprisingly grounded for someone so inebriated. "I feel good, better than ever."

"But you're going to feel sick soon," Phillip reasoned as he turned to face the slightly shorter Ravenclaw. "And when you do, you'll feel better in bed." 

"I already feel sick, every day," Wheeler replied, and her voice was suddenly quite simple and straightforward. Phillip winced, but then she continued on. "And right now I don't feel sick, so I want Cinderella." 

Phillip let out a quiet sigh, looking down into the hopeful brown eyes. "What does that mean, Wheeler? I don't know that story," he replied. 

"It means..." Wheeler furrowed her brow and appeared to focus quite hard, and Phillip found his grin returning. "It means you put my shoe back on, but only one." 

"Ah, I see," he agreed, nodding seriously as he tried to hide his grin. "Then what?"

"Then, you take me away with you," Wheeler said seriously. "And we go far, far away to your palace, and I think that you kiss me." 

The grin disappeared immediately. Her words, though they were only the drunken ramblings of a broken, hurting girl, made more of an impact on Phillip than he would have liked. He would have liked nothing better than to leave with her, to run far away on his parents' money somewhere that the war could not touch either of them, where no one would judge her based on her parentage and where the name 'Carlyle' meant nothing. But Phillip was not sure that such a place existed, where the two of them could coexist without the shadow of the Dark Lord looming over them; even if it did, he knew that Wheeler would never leave. 

"You're not in your right mind," Phillip said quietly, tugging on her wrist. "Come on, let's get you off to bed." 

"Kiss me," Wheeler insisted, looking up at him. Before he could do anything about it, she had moved with his gentle tug so that she was pressed against his chest, and their foreheads were mere inches apart. "I want you to kiss me." 

"You're drunk," he said softly, looking into the warm eyes that seemed to glow with a light from within. "You don't want me to kiss you, Wheeler." 

"I do," she insisted, resisting Phillip's gentle attempt to move her away. "I want you to kiss me. I want you to kiss me all the time, every day. I want you to kiss me and I want you to call me 'Anne.'" Her words were insistent, and her brow was still furrowed. She stubbornly wrapped her arms around his neck, and then she was leaning in to whisper against the skin just below his jaw. "Don't you want to kiss me, too?" Her breath was feathery against his skin, causing chills to go down his spine as she slowly began to press soft, barely-there kisses against his skin. One, then two, then a third and a fourth kiss landed with all the delicacy of a butterfly as her rosebud lips brushed his neck with addicting sweetness.

All the breath melted from Phillip in a soft sigh of bliss before Phillip forced himself to pull away. Her arms broke free from his neck as he placed distance between them, though he could still feel the ghost of her kiss on his neck. "Wheeler-" 

"Anne," she pleaded, looking up at him with eyes filled with hurt. He couldn't resist her request, drunken or not, when she was looking at him like that. 

"Anne," he corrected himself. "This isn't appropriate, I'm taking advantage. Come on, let's get you to bed-" 

"Don't you want to kiss me?" she repeated, and her eyes were injured as she looked at him. A little gasp escaped Phillip, and he raked a hand through his hair as conflict raged through him. 

"Of course I do." The words left him before he gave them permission. He winced but he knew he would do anything to soothe the pain in those beautiful eyes. Telling the truth seemed a small price for easing her hurt. "Of course I do. But not like this. I want you to go to bed now... Anne. You're going to need sleep." 

"But I don't want sleep," she mumbled, seeming more confused than anything now. "I want you." 

She spoke the words as if she did not know how they sent chills up his spine, how he had imagined her saying them a million different ways. "I know," he murmured. His voice was barely louder than a whisper. "But you don't need me. You need sleep. Come on, how about we get you to bed? Everything will be better in the morning." 

Wheeler blinked at him, and then slowly she nodded. "Okay," she agreed, her voice almost childish as the Ravenclaw began to walk towards him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he stiffened, but before he could move away, she said, "Carry me?" 

Phillip let out a shuddering breath as he carefully moved to obey, lifting her into his arms bridal style. Wheeler was surprisingly light, all muscle as he cradled her to his chest carefully. He began to walk up the staircase, and Wheeler rested her head against his shoulder. He felt her breathing deepen as he walked into her room, and when he lowered her to the bed she was asleep. Carefully, Phillip pulled down the covers next to her and then worked to slide them over Wheeler's slumbering form. She hummed in her sleep and rolled onto her right side, curling up. She slept like that, he had noted, the same way that she had when she fell asleep on the chair in the common room. Her form was small, curled up as though she was trying to keep warm as she snuggled under the covers. A sleepy murmur escaped her lips when she finally settled down. 

For a moment, Phillip stood, watching. He knew that he shouldn't, but for a moment, Phillip drank in the sight of the girl who was carrying so much as she slept with a peaceful brow that was free of any frown. Before he could stop himself, he had leaned over, and he was brushing a light kiss onto her forehead. "Goodnight," he whispered softly, watching as the ghost of a smile tugged at her lips in her sleep. Then, Phillip turned and closed the door to her bedroom, trying to ignore the fact that every step that led him away from her took a little bit more effort. 

* * *

The next morning, Phillip woke early and made sure that there was a headache potion in the medicine cabinet, as well as a glass beside the pitcher of water that Anne kept on their kitchen table. After that, he made himself fairly scare, sure to keep the door to his room closed. Through the wood of the door, Phillip heard the opening and shutting of Anne's own door multiple times, always followed by the sound of bare feet running down the stairs. He winced at the thought of how nauseous she probably was and remained grateful that it was a Saturday for her sake. She did have Quidditch practice scheduled for that day, however, so that was going to be an interesting experience. 

Phillip was walking on eggshells all morning, unsure what to do. How much would Wheeler remember exactly? He had said things that were incredibly inappropriate... Admitting his feelings for her while she was drunk was inappropriate on so many levels. He also did not want her to be embarrassed for saying what she had said. It was true that perhaps she had only said them because she was drunk, but if there was even an ounce of truth to them, then maybe... 

No. Phillip would say nothing about them.

Around noon, Phillip decided to move his study session down to the Common Room. He couldn't avoid her forever, he reasoned, especially not if they were going to be leading the students of Hogwarts in battle. The need for practice among the ranks of the younger students would not disappear simply because Anne Wheeler had gotten drunk, and if they let their embarrassment get in the way of what needed to be done, then they were simply being negligent. It was for this reason that Phillip came down the steps a few hours later with his arms filled with tomes and half-finished scrolls. He could barely see over the pile, so it was not until he set everything down with a 'thud' on the table that he noticed Wheeler seated at her desk. 

The Ravenclaw student looked exhausted, to say the least. Her signature bun was much messier than usual, and her face was ashen as she appeared to be focusing on homework. The brown eyes that always seemed to electrify him were narrowed, and there was a crease in her forehead as she squinted down at her parchment. Frankly, the girl looked about as ill as could be expected after getting hammered. Before he could say anything, Wheeler looked up at him. "Good morning," she muttered in a hoarse voice before returning to the parchment. 

Phillip could barely contain a breath of relief as he replied, "Good morning." Either she did not remember anything or had chosen to ignore the events of last night. A little part of him was going crazy trying to figure out which it was, but the rest of him was grateful. Things would be easier this way. "So, have you thought about the plans? I've been doing research on what all of the different years have been taught and how to approach teaching them, and I've made... A few strides. It'll be difficult, but I think that we can do it. "

Wheeler looked up at him again and nodded slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Right," she muttered. She set aside the work she was doing and took a deep breath as she pressed her fingers to her temples. "I... I spoke to my brother, last night when I left," she began. He nodded, taking care to look at least a little bit surprised. "He's safe, but currently hidden while he does work against You-Know-Who. We talked, and he told me about a room in the castle that would suit itself to our needs: size, soundproofing, you name it. We can do this there. But all members, First Year to Seventh, would need to sign a contract that would make sure that they do not tell about the group, or if they try to, they find themselves magically tongue-tied. He didn't give me an exact jinx, but I am sure that I can handle that particularly tricky bit of spellwork. For members, we network. We start with people we know that we can trust, like Edison-" 

"I'll talk to him, then," Phillip interrupted quickly. He remembered what the younger student had said about Wheeler, and he didn't exactly want the younger student mentioning it to her. 

Anne cast him a slightly bemused glance before continuing. "Then we trust those people to spread the word discreetly to others interested. We would meet beforehand, probably somewhere like the Broomsticks for the older students and the library for under Third Years. Then, we spread meeting dates by leaving them in a sort of coded flier on the House bulletin boards, something that is easy to ignore if you're not looking for it." 

"That's brilliant," Phillip agreed, nodding. He was impressed, and a little glint of pride in Wheeler's eyes rewarded his comment. 

"It was my idea," she admitted, brushing a few curls out of her face. "I would ask to see your work, but I've got Quidditch. If you could speak to Edison while I'm gone, that would be fantastic." She glanced at the clock before she stood, and Phillip waved at her casually as he moved to leave. "Excellent. I hope your practice goes horribly." 

"Please, my team could beat Slytherin even if we were blind and deaf," she scoffed as she turned to vanish into the dormitories, and Phillip rolled his eyes as the door to their Common Room closed. 

It did not take long to locate Edison since Phillip knew that the younger boy was a devoted member of the Gobstones Club that met in the library on Saturdays to the chagrin of Madame Pince. After Phillip had helped him to clear the foul-smelling slime from his robes, it took a while to help the boy understand exactly what they were doing. 

"So... Basically, if we blab, we're never going to speak again?" 

"No, no, but you wouldn't be able to tell anyone until either Wheeler or I lifted the jinx, and then we would have a talk with you about why you felt the need to tell so we could solve the issue for everyone." 

"So you're jinxing us, then." 

"No-" 

The conversation took about half an hour in all, but by the time that it ended, Phillip knew that the boy understood. In his short time at Hogwarts, Phillip had watched the young Gryffindor become fairly well-liked by his peers, so when he assured Phillip that he knew some interested parties, Phillip knew they would be trustworthy. After that, he had stayed for the remained of the club's meeting at Edison's insistence, playing eight or nine games of the magical version of marbles and losing rather pitifully. Still, the smiles on the younger students' faces were something that Phillip had really needed, and they served as a reminder of exactly why they were doing this. 

Several hours later, the Head Boy finally managed to escape the library to walk back to the Common Room. The foul-smelling sludge that the marbles had squirted at the losers was proving notoriously tricky to remove, so Phillip had resorted to wiping at it with a handkerchief as he tugged on the suit of armor to enter the Common Room. As soon as the wall slid shut silently behind him, Phillip could hear the sound of voices. He froze in the overhang that shielded the doorway from the Common Room, not moving. The agitated conversation did not sound like one he wanted to interrupt, so he was forced to listen. 

"-so when will it end?" 

"That isn't fair, Eli. You know I've got a ton on my plate at the moment."

"I know you have, and I respect that. You're busy the way you always have been. It was one of the things that caught my eye in the first place." 

"Then why can't you understand-" 

"It was never about being busy, Anne." Phillip recognized the voice as Swenson's and it was stern, but not unkind as he spoke. "It was about making time for each other. And I know you've had a terrible couple weeks, which was why I didn't push it when you didn't make the time for me that I've always made for you. But now you're telling me that you have time to organize an underground army-"

"Bloody hell, Eli, how are you managing to make it about you?" 

"I'm not." The statement was final, and Phillip winced. This was not something that he was supposed to be witnessing, but he did not want to show his face now. "I think it's a bloody brilliant idea, and you had better believe I will be in full support of it, the same way that I have always been in full support of you. My problem isn't with that, it's with the fact that you're showing me you have time. It's been like this since day one, and I've been waiting for it to change ever since. I should have told you, or maybe I should have realized it a long time ago, but instead, I just waited and waited. This is me telling you that I'm done waiting for you to give me what you don't have." 

There was silence for a moment, and then Wheeler's voice reached Phillip's ears. "I'm sorry. I don't know why, but I can't- I can't give you what you need, Eli. I would never have been able to. And I'm sorry, I really am, because you're an incredible bloke and an even better person." 

There was silence for a moment, and then Swenson's soft laugh followed. "It's alright, really," the boy sighed. His voice was bittersweet. "You couldn't have given me what I need, no matter how long I had waited. And it wasn't right of me to expect it from you either when clearly we just aren't right for one another."

Her laugh followed shortly after. "Yeah," she admitted, and Phillip could see their shadows step closer to embrace. It wasn't a romantic touch, however. It was a farewell, a parting of ways. "And I still care about you, I always will. Just not... This way, not romantically." 

"And that's alright," Swenson replied. There was a note of sadness in his tenor, but also acceptance. "I really do want to stay friends, Anne, and that's not just me saying that." 

"Yeah, no, I understand," Wheeler said quickly. "I feel the same way. I'm always... Here, you know? As a friend. If you need anything." 

A moment's silence passed, and then Swenson said, "I really appreciate it, but... Not yet, I don't think. Give me time to adjust to this, and then that sounds perfect." 

Phillip watched as their shadows exchanged one more time, and then a breath escaped him that he had not realized he was holding. Immediately after, however, Swenson's form began to approach the doorway. "Goodnight." 

"Goodnight," Wheeler replied in return. 

Phillip froze. There was nowhere for him to go, and then Swenson's form appeared in the doorway. Phillip blinked, and a droplet of the slime dripped down his nose as the two stared at one another. 

"I'm sorry, mate," Phillip stammered, and he could see Wheeler's shadowy silhouette stiffen on the rug. "I didn't mean to intrude, I swear-" 

"Nah, it's fine," Swenson interrupted, offering Phillip a smile. Granted, it was smaller than its usual glory, but where Phillip had been expecting a punch it felt like an olive branch. "I get it. Good luck, mate." Before Phillip could ask what that meant, the older boy was gone and he was left standing in the doorway. 

Slowly, Phillip took in a deep breath and walked into the Common Room. Wheeler had moved to stand by the fire as he entered, and she currently was staring into it so that the flames danced in her dark eyes. 

"Are you alright?" Phillip's words left him without consent for the second time in the past day, but she did not look his way. A moment of silence grew between the two of them, during which his concern only grew. 

After a moment, however, she slowly nodded. "I think I am," she murmured. "Or getting there." She stared into the flames for a moment longer, and then she turned to look at him. His face burned beneath the slime, and for a moment a flicker of amusement danced in her eyes. "Go take a bloody bath, Carlyle, if you can manage it without me." Wheeler turned over her shoulder then and strode up the staircase to the dorms, leaving Phillip gaping like a slime-covered fish. 


	15. The Meeting

**[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD) **

**Song of the Chapter: "[1950](https://open.spotify.com/track/0CZ8lquoTX2Dkg7Ak2inwA)" by King Princess**

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For the first time in weeks, Anne could breathe again. 

She knew that she should have felt guilty about Swenson, and to some extent, she did. Things between them could have gone much better. But a small part of her knew that they wouldn't have worked, regardless of the circumstances. Swenson had been searching for the sort of affection that Anne could not provide. She had never believed that any sort of romance would present itself to her; that was the sort of thing that happened in the Muggle movies her mother had watched when she and W.D. were children. In real life, love was for the dynamic, charismatic people that drew others to them. Anne was comfortable in herself, but she had never been that girl. She was a bit too intense, the sort that would always have casual friends but never be anyone's first choice. She knew that any love that suited her would have to be intense, too, the kind of love that brought more pain than joy. Anne did not wish that on anyone. 

Entering the Great Hall the morning after the breakup had almost been freeing. When Anne looked over at the Ravenclaw table to find somewhere to sit, Swenson had offered her a little smile as a peace offering. The rest of the Quidditch Team was seated around him, and the spot across from where Anne normally sat was open. She seated herself, and then everything was uncomfortably quiet for a moment. Nichols broke the silence by making a comment about Acuna's faceplant at the last practice, and after that, it was easy to go on as though all was normal. 

As the days went on, however, it became increasingly clear that all was anything but normal. Anne and Carlyle spent most free time planning their group, which Carlyle had named the "Underground Warriors." It felt as though there was a warmth in Anne's chest that could not be chilled by the fear that was creeping in around the school. Of course, she still felt the fear, but it did not stab the way that it once had.

On November 16, Carlyle sketched out the design for a particularly drab poster advertising the "Magical Plant Life Classification Club," and once they made sufficient copies, Anne had set herself the task of penning in the code. The club's scheduled 'meeting time' actually signified the date that they would be meeting, and under the bottom left pin on the poster was written the name of the Three Broomsticks. Carlyle volunteered to post them on the bulletin boards in every Common Room that night. 

The next morning, Anne woke at her normal time and forced herself to continue her normal morning routine by walking to the bathroom. even resisting the urge to hide away in her room instead was exhausting, the same way it had been all the time since the night she had spoken with W.D. Every step that brought her closer to the bathroom was heavy with dread because she knew each one brought her closer to the Slytherin inside. First, her steps brought her to the Common Room, the scene of her humiliation. 

The Chocolate Cauldrons had been a poor idea, though Anne  _could_ legally ingest Firewhiskey. Seeing her brother and being reminded of the darkness they faced had made the Cauldrons seem all the more appealing. The warmth had distracted her for a moment and washed everything away; unfortunately, Anne's inhibitions had also been lost to the flood. 

The memories of returning to the Common Room to find Carlyle, of her lips against his skin... None of it was nearly blurry enough for her liking. Instead, in her mind, the flashbacks were seen in vivid moments of color and feeling, and the worst part was that she knew she meant every word. The nausea that had come the following morning was as much caused by their interaction as it was by the hangover. She had managed to pull herself together by the next time they saw one another, and she did not think he suspected that she remembered the feeling of lips brushing her forehead. But every time she looked at him, she remembered that tingling touch and felt humiliation, confusion, and frustration with herself course through her again. 

Carlyle stayed the perfect gentleman, as normal Carlyle always had. In fact, if she could not remember the events of that night, Anne would not have assumed that anything had changed. Carlyle had begun to eat down on the end of the Slytherin table that was closer to the First Years, which placed him right in Anne's line of sight from her new spot. it took all of her willpower not to look over at him while she ate sometimes, especially not when he was so intently focused on his discussion with them. His face was always animated while he spoke with them, and it became a bit harder with every smile for Anne to stop falling for him. She was  _not_ falling for him, she tried to tell herself. But even she knew that she was lying. 

Luckily, it did not matter whether or not Anne was falling for Carlyle. Either way, she would not actually fall, not in the end, because they could not be together. Their stories could not end that way. He wasn't meant to be hers, and in the coming hurricane, neither of them needed another anchor to pull them down or another chink in their armor for their enemies to exploit. 

What they did need was to work together for the time being, for the sake of the younger and inexperienced students. This was why Anne stopped loitering in the Common Room and finally entered the bathroom. 

As anticipated, Carlye was there tending to his hair with the same love and affection that every teenage boy had for his hair. He looked up at her with those blue eyes and offered her a small, sleepy smile as she entered. Anne forced herself to look away and instead moved to approach the sink. She offered him a quick, "Good morning," in greeting as she pulled out her toothbrush from her toiletry bag. 

"Morning," he replied as he turned back to the mirror. There was a moment of palpable silence as Anne began to brush her teeth, and then he glanced her way again. "Are you ready for the meeting?" 

There was an awkward moment of silence as Anne spat out her toothpaste and rinsed her mouth, which was an action that caused her an unusual amount of embarrassment in front of him. As she patted her lips dry, Anne nodded slowly. "I think so... I have the paper for the agreement enchanted, I just hope that people have gotten the word." 

"They have," he replied confidently as he set down his comb. "Edison says that the word has spread like wildfire-- only to the right people, of course. My Quidditch Team... Well, not Cassia, but a few of them, anyway... They've been informed and are interested."

"Really?" Anne murmured, surprised. A little smile was tempted to crawl across her lips, but Anne kept it controlled. Her team was all interested of course, but she had not been expecting many others to join. "And I know that several of the younger students in Second and Third Year have been interested in coming. Sounds like we're going to have a crowd today." 

Anne picked up a comb and brushed her hair back into a bun, and she found Carlyle watching her for a moment. She quickly looked away at the same time as he did, and Anne forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat. "Y-yeah, definitely," Carlyle mumbled as he finished putting away his things. "So I guess it's time that we go down and see how many people are there?" 

Anne finished with her bun and set down the comb, straightening her old cardigan. "I guess so," she agreed, and with that, she walked out of the bathroom without a glance over her shoulder. 

Both Anne and Carlyle pulled on their boots and jackets in silence. The school had been getting a lot of snow, which was perfect for their planning of the dance. However, the masses of white in the paths to Hogsmeade also meant that their walk through the halls of the school and then into the snow took much longer than it normally would have. Anne allowed silence to stretch between them as they walked through the snow. She was fairly sure that Carlyle could not see through her front to her racing heart and panicked thoughts. She needed to act as though all was normal, as though everything was fine.

Anne knew that it was good to face problems head-on, but with the problem that was Phillip Carlyle, it was so much easier just to wish and will it away. 

The snow was falling slowly in thick flakes that nestled in both Anne's and Carlyle's hair. The drifting flakes made it feel like they were walking through a snow globe, a little bubble of space where everything had always been and would always be the same. In a way, Anne supposed, it was true. For as long as she had ever known, the walk to Hogsmeade had been like this-- sprawling, with the same bare bones of the greenhouses and the forest and the castle looming behind them enduring forever, despite changes in the weather. Snow crunched under their feet and soaked through the worn sole of Anne's heel, but she ignored that in favor of watching the puffs of mist that drifted up from her lips into the cold air. Her thin coat was not warm enough, but Anne refused to shiver. Instead, she locked her muscles in an attempt to keep them under control as they walked. This worked for a few moments until she felt the heavy warmth of a jacket being lowered over her shoulders. 

Anne turned a sharp gaze to Carlyle, who stared back at her evenly. "Car-" 

"You're freezing, and I'm wearing layers," he interrupted, arching an eyebrow. "I'm fine. I was getting hot anyway. Either way, I'm not taking it back. So we can do this by arguing the whole way there, or you can just wear the jacket." His tone was not unkind, but it was firm, telling her that he would not be moved. 

The Head Girl turned over the idea in her mind. On the one hand, she did not want to accept it out of pity or because he thought she needed charity. On the other hand, the jacket's weight over her shoulders was warm, and she could already feel the chill leaving her. It was still warm from Carlyle's body heat, and it was only for a moment. She would wash it once they got back. "Fine," she mumbled, turning to face forwards as she wrapped the jacket around herself. It was a bit too large, and she was sure that she looked rather comical as she shot him a look and wrinkled her nose. For a comfortable moment, he stared back at her in amusement and she was not shivering.

The Ravenclaw refused to admit to herself that the deciding factor in her choice to use the coat was the fact that it smelled of sandalwood and pine. 

The Broomsticks came sooner than Anne had anticipated, and the bell jingled in a familiar way as they stepped through the doors. Scents of cinnamon and cocoa were carried over to them in the warm air, and the buzz of discussion made it hard to make out any individual conversations. This particular day at Hogsmeade, the establishment was filled with groups of students seeking warmth. However, it was not warm and homey the way that it once had been... Rather, groups sat huddled to themselves, turned inward in defensive stances. The candles on the tables cast flickering shadows that seemed to reach with gnarled hands from the corner of the room, and watchful eyes glanced over shoulders, always watching and making sure to be aware. The warmth of the air remained the same, but the comfortable, casual atmosphere had been drained, another casualty in the war. 

In the far corner, Anne could make out a group of tables that had been dragged together to extend from a corner booth. There was a cluttered mess of chairs around the tables, and seated in them were many faces that Anne recognized as well as several that she did not. A mixture of youthful eyes and those that held a weary sort of understanding beheld her and Carlyle, looking at them as they approached.

The Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain's gaze swept the table to find her teammates sitting together, and when her eyes met Swenson's, she saw hurt flash in them. For a moment, Anne thought it was about the breakup, but then she glanced down and realized that she was wearing a jacket that was clearly not her own. It was several sizes too large and swallowed her, and Carlyle stood by her side with his shoulders dusted in thick white flakes, melting fast.

The Head Girl's cheeks heated up, but she cleared her throat and took a seat at the head of the table in order to make sure she was doing something, anything. Carlyle sat by her side. "Thank you all for coming," Anne murmured, glancing around the table. "My name is Anne Wheeler, and it's a pleasure to meet you." 

"Mine is Phillip Carlyle, and I share the sentiment," Carlyle agreed from her side. There were nods and murmurs of greeting, and then things were silent again. For her part, Anne had never seen the younger students so solemn. Then again, she knew that they understood as well as anybody else that this was a war, and they had the most to lose.

"As happy as I am that you are all here, I need you to understand how serious this is," Anne began. Her eyes scanned the table, and she met the gazes of several students as she spoke. "Don't think that just because we're the Heads of School you're safe from punishment if this is found out. This has nothing to do with the school board or even the teachers. If it's found out that this exists, there could be serious consequences for everyone. We would need to make sure that the teachers here did not get dragged into this, and I think I speak for Carlyle when I say that we will do whatever we have to to keep the staff of Hogwarts out of this, even if that means assuming responsibility ourselves. The utmost secrecy is required." 

"But won't we be noticed?" spoke up a Fourth Year Hufflepuff with red braids framing a round face. "It's hard to believe that no one will realize that there are a bunch of students running around the school hexing things." 

Though no one spoke, Anne could tell that the sentiment was shared. Carlyle spoke up before she could, and she turned to listen. "The details," he began, "have been settled. Trust me when I say that we have ways of doing this that should keep it from being discovered. We can't go into detail with them yet, for secrecy's sake. The biggest threat to our being found out is that we are sharing this with you, and that is a calculated risk that Wheeler and I are willing to take. If you will not agree to keep this a secret and put your name to it, leave now, and no one will blame you. No one should be doing this for curiosity's sake. This is out of necessity more than anything else." 

There was a moment of quiet, but no one moved. Anne nodded slowly, and a little smile appeared on her lips. "Excellent," she murmured, lifting up a roll of parchment and a quill. "Now, if you're interested in joining, in learning how to defend yourselves in a fight should you have to regardless of your age, I need you to sign your name. You should know that this paper is enchanted. If you decide to talk about this or try to inform anyone who is not a member, we will be made aware and you will not be able to speak any further information until we can work out whatever problem you have with this. After you have signed, we can begin... And everything will make sense." 

Anne began by signing her name at the top, then she passed it to Carlyle. He signed in dark ink without a moment's hesitation. Next, the paper went to Swenson, who signed it easily. Nichols hesitated for a moment, then looked up at Anne. "And you are sure," she said quietly, "that this is our only option?" 

The Quidditch Captain met the younger girl's gaze evenly. "It is," she replied. "If you don't think it's necessary for you, that's alright. But we all need to be able to practice in a safe environment, and the younger students need to know more than they're supposed to at this point in their education. That's the truth of it, and there isn't anything that Professor Barnum can do without the Daily Prophet or the school board moving to remove her from Hogwarts. All they need is a reason." 

Carlyle winced at the mention of the board, but then he continued. "The teachers of Hogwarts are one of its most important lines of defense. I happen to know that Professor and Headmaster Barnum are both skilled casters of defensive magic, and Professor Barnum has been awarded many recognitions that name her the most talented duellist in England. Her defensive charms are nearly unbreakable. Professor Yan is a scholar who is currently working on a thesis concerning the secrets of the castle, and she knows it and its defense mechanisms better than anyone else. Stratton cultivates a garden of poisonous plants that is the most deadly in England, and many are capable of being weaponized. Professor Eldridge is one of the most experienced men in the world when it comes to studying the nature of pyrotechnics, including dangerous classifications of flames such as Fiendfyre and Greek flames. Professor Lutz is an acknowledged spellcaster with a talent for massive spells of intricate methods. These people are as essential to the safety of the students as the school building is itself. We need to take matters into our own hands and work to their defense, the same way they do for the students of Hogwarts." 

Anne turned her gaze to the Quidditch player, meeting the Beater's dark eyes. They seemed to glow with a quiet sort of intensity as the girl with hair as dark and smooth as ink allowed a smile onto her lips. 

"Well," Nichols hummed as she looked down to the paper. The scratching of a quill met Anne's ears as the girl signed her name in a small, looping script. "That's that, then. No room for dispute." 

Her words seemed to allow the first bit of warmth into the Broomsticks for days, and as the list moved on, the columns of names stretched longer. The quill was gripped with eager fingers, and Carlyle and Anne watched as the army that had only been spoken of in the late hours of the night formed before their eyes. 


	16. The Masquerade Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> //WARNING: This chapter will contain some mature content, such as racial slurs and attitudes that are not reciprocated by the author. Such derogatory language and worldviews are not used or shared by the author, nor are they depicted in a positive light. In order to remain integrous to the story, I found it necessary to use them. Otherwise, I would never have done so. Please remember that this story takes place around 1977, and that the characters using such language are in their older age, so this would not seem unacceptable to them, though there is no dispute today among anyone with half a brain that such attitudes and slurs are absolutely awful. If you think that such language is acceptable in real life, please feel free to get the hell out. If such content makes you uncomfortable, I will mark where it begins and ends and provide a summary at the beginning of next chapter. Thank you for understanding.

[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD)

**Song of the Chapter: "[Never Enough](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Gl5s8IhMmQE5YQwM8Qx1J)" from The Greatest Showman**

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 The days began to blur in a race of activity, one that seemed to be dragging Phillip along by the back of his robes. 

It had been an amazing feeling to watch as the group that had only been a whispered idea grew into a reality right before their eyes. Though they had managed to fill the list, there was not time before the winter holidays to schedule a meeting. Still, Wheeler had arranged the first club meeting to be the third day after everyone returned, and the date had been published on a new fake pamphlet. The location listed was the seventh floor corridor. There, Wheeler planned to wait and to teach each new passing pair of students how to enter the Room of Requirement. Until then, Phillip spent his nights planning a curriculum and Wheeler spent hers scribbling out answers to the notes with questions about the Underground Warriors that she had begun to find stuck in the head of the suit of armor outside their door. 

As the days began to pass with increasing speed, there was less and less time for the group. More time and energy was needed from both Phillip and Wheeler for the Seventh Year Dance, an event that Phillip felt could not be planned at a worse time. 

Massive amounts of students were staying over break to attend the dance, which took place on Christmas Eve. In years past, the Seventh Year Dance had been an event the entire school decorated for, and this year they could not disappoint. The night before the last day of school preceding the holiday was spent decorating the many halls of the school with garlands made of silver leaves, as well as causing fake snow to fall in thick flakes from the ceiling and replacing the flames in the candelabras with little tongues of silver fire. Phillip's least favorite part of the task was hanging mistletoe. Wheeler and Phillip both were extremely careful not to let themselves walk under the bundles of the plant, and both made sure to hang them in strategic places that would allow them to avoid it easily on their way to classes. 

The next day, the whole school spent most of the day commenting on the transformation of the hallways and the classroom. There was palpable excitement in the air for the event, and Phillip knew that it was an important victory over the usual worry and terror. However, while most of the students spent their time in classes discussing what they would wear for the masquerade, Phillip found his mind drifting to the conversation they had had the night before. 

Wheeler had been sitting atop a ladder, perched precariously as she fiddled with a large amount of garland. She wanted to make sure that their Sticking Spell would hold it up, and so she was gently tugging on several different parts of it. Every time that she leaned out over the ladder, Phillip's heart leaped dangerously. He was so sure that she would fall, every time, but of course she balanced easily as if she were only leaning to rest against the wall. Her hair was a mess in its bun from an entire day of running around the castle like a mad person, and little ringlets drifted free around her face and head to make a sort of wispy brown halo. 

"-and then we can work on the Great Hall. I think I  _finally_ found the spell we need to be able to change the color of the candles," Wheeler finished as she climbed down from the ladder. Phillip let out a quiet sigh of relief as she went over to the bag of mistletoe they had and waved her wand. The bundles of mistletoe flew out of the bag and into the air, where they one-by-one began to hang themselves around the hallway. She had been rattling off the work that they had yet to do, and he had been listening quietly as he nodded. 

"Right, of course," he replied as he finished tucking away a bag of baubles made from red glass. They were delicate and light, and they caught the silvery light in a rather attractive manner when they were hung from the garlands. "After all of this, I don't think we'll have any choice but to enjoy the dance." His joke had been lighthearted, and there was a little smile on his lips as he glanced her way. Said grin had faded slightly when he realized her face was as serious as ever. "You are going, aren't you?" 

"Swenson bought our tickets a few months ago," she replied, glancing the other way. "I gave mine to Nichols. Sure, I have the dress and all, but I don't think I really want to attend." 

"After all the work you put in?" Phillip had exclaimed. "Wheeler, you're the mastermind behind this whole thing. You deserve to reap the rewards, same as the rest of us." 

"Yeah, well. I don't have a ticket either way." 

Phillip raised an eyebrow. "Lucky for you," he said quietly, "I have one extra." 

That wasn't as much of a lie as he would have liked to admit. Before the incident in the Broomsticks, Phillip had purchased two tickets. He would not have been able to explain why then, and he still wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was grateful that his conscience had not stopped nagging him, and that the unused ticket was still collecting dust in his desk drawer instead of being thrown in the trash can." 

Wheeler had looked up at him, and when she did, her eyes were widened in surprise. In the blink of an eye, she regained her composure, and the Head Girl returned his gaze evenly. "You aren't going to take no for an answer, are you?" she sighed, impatiently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

"No, I am not," Phillip answered firmly. "Besides, if you spent money on a dress, you should have a chance to wear it." 

Her face had seemed to become rosy, and Wheeler glanced down at her boots. "I didn't... I only rented it. Coleman's mother is a high-end Muggle tailor, and she called in a few favors for me." 

"But that is still money that would go to waste," he pointed out. "Wheeler, let yourself have just one night. One, without all of this." 

She had looked up at him, and Phillip could hear the gears turning in her head. As she did, Phillip watched her face, hopeful. He had no ulterior motive; he wasn't asking her to go with him, and he knew that she knew it. He only thought that she deserved a night to unwind from the horror story that was all of their lives, but hers in particular. Her brother was gone, living away from Hogwarts somewhere that only she and Phillip could reach him. A few days after they had begun planning the Underground Warriors, Wheeler had informed him that her brother was a resource available to him if he needed answers about changing his allegiance in the war. The offer had been one he appreciated, and so Phillip had begun to write to W.D. Through writing, Phillip knew most of the true story. But Wheeler lived with her brother's shattered reputation every day, as well as the constant fear that he would be discovered. To top it off, they had dealt with four incidents in the past month in which Muggle-born students had been assaulted with magic because of their blood status. Two had elected to leave Hogwarts after a particularly nasty Stinging Hex and Bat Bogey Curse.

Wheeler deserved a moment to breathe after all of that. 

Finally, the Ravenclaw had let out a quiet sigh and a nod. A grin slid onto his face again, and it was mirrored on her own lips in a slightly more muted form. 

"Alright," she had agreed. "But you let me pay for it, or I don't take it at all." 

Phillip had nodded earnestly, willing to do whatever he needed to in order to make sure that she attended. There was a little happy, glowing feeling in his chest after that discussion. Immediately after, Wheeler had changed the subject, and Phillip had not complained. He was mollified, and anything that followed in their discussion was up to her. 

Their talk lingered in his head all through the following day and into the beginning of break. All of the Prefects stayed, regardless of their Year, to help them transform the Great Hall. Wheeler was in charge of that, and instead, Phillip led another group of Prefects out onto the grounds to tend to the gardens. There, they spent the day using their wands to literally gild lilies and roses, growing them into elegant shrubs whose flowery scent carried out over the snowy grounds. Phillip could not help but think as they walked back in that the smell was still nowhere near as good as the scent of lilacs, but he tried not to think about that. Instead, he reminded the Prefects that they were all invited to attend the Dance free of cost, and then he returned to the Common Room. There, he strode over to his desk and took out the ticket from the bottom drawer, and Phillip left it sitting in the middle of the chaotic mess of books and papers that was Wheeler's own desk. He knew that she would see it, perched atop her copy of the student handbook, and for a moment he wondered what it would be like to hold her as the snow drifted around their shoulders from an enchanted ceiling. 

* * *

 The night of the dance came much more quickly than Phillip would have liked, if he was to say the least. 

Wheeler had left quite early in the day with a parcel under her arm, muttering something about getting ready with Nichols. She had seemed slightly flustered by the massive amount they had to do to prepare that day, and so Phillip had not attempted to make much conversation as she left him. Instead, he had gone to the bathroom to prepare for the dance as well, though he did so in his own way.

Phillip began by using the bathtub he had used all those months ago with Wheeler, the first day that they had ever really talked. The water was warm against his skin and worked to calm the nerves that were fluttering in his stomach. Phillip would have liked to think that they had everything to do with nervousness for the event he had worked towards, but he knew there was more to them than that. Still, the thick layer of bubbles made it easy not to think about it. After he climbed out of the bath and dried his hair and body, it only took a little while for Phillip to tend to his clothing. He donned a black suit with a crisp white suit underneath, along with a silver tie. The clothing was sharp and neat, and it was quite similar to the sort of thing that Phillip might have worn to one of his family's dinner parties. As Phillip worked to tame his hair and smooth it down, he took a breath and looked into the mirror.

A few months ago, the person looking back at him would have been very different. But Phillip wasn't that person anymore. He did not have to think about the sensation of a Dark Mark being burned into his arm, he did not have to think about what would happen when he was called upon to kill for the Dark Lord. There were other things to think about, yes. Phillip knew that once the news reached his parents, he would be unable to go home. He was terrified of them, and his nightmares were haunted by his father chasing him down and adding to the scars on his chest. But at least he knew, now. He knew he was on the right side.

So when Phillip looked in the mirror he did not see the boy who had been so used to attending family parties all those months ago. Instead, he saw a man, someone who was taking a stand for what he knew was right. he wasn't doing this for Wheeler, though she certainly had been the one who had forced him to face it head-on. He was doing it for himself, and that was enough. 

Taking a deep breath, Phillip slipped his wand into his pocket and moved to leave the bathroom. The Common Room that greeted him was empty, and the fire and its embers had burned down to a soft glow. He took that moment to steel himself, glancing down at his suit and moving to straighten the tie. There was no need to be nervous, he reminded himself. There wasn't. 

But there was, because Wheeler was going to be there, and he was falling in love with her. 

Phillip shoved that thought far, far away and instead began to walk towards the door with his ticket in his hand. Phillip had noticed that the ticket on Wheeler's desk had vanished after she left, and a little grin slid onto his lips. He knew that he would find a few coins slid into his desk drawer the day after she got paid, and he did not mind that so terribly much. If she wanted to pay him back, he would let her, for the sake of her pride more than anything else. Phillip stepped out of the Common Room and into the corridor, turning down it after a moment. his footsteps echoed in the hallway as the silver cast its light onto his face, and he followed the growing crowd of people as he slipped a back mask with silver embellishments onto his face. It was fairly simple, and it covered the area around his eyes and nose. Still, Phillip knew he would be recognizable as he began to see people heading in the same direction as him. 

The girls wore dresses, some with larger skirts than others as they passed him. A few had trains or puffed out to ridiculous proportions, and the startling array of colors caused Phillip to blink several times. People walked arm in arm to the doors of the Great Hall, where they showed their tickets and then were allowed to enter. Phillip thought it was beautiful how so many people were there for the same reason, and he was looking forward to seeing what Wheeler had been able to do to the Great Hall. It was for this reason that Phillip handed over his ticket almost immediately and stepped in with wide eyes. 

He had not been wrong to look forward to this. 

The room was large and spacious, and massive flakes of fake snow drifted down from the ceiling in a way that made it look like they were in a wonderland. The candles glimmered silver, and golden rose garlands covered the sides of the walls. Every inch of the hall sparkled, and a large part of the floor was cleared for dancing. On the other side of the hall, a few tables were set up. they were filled with delicate looking pastries, all decorated with roses of silver and gold, and there was a large vat of golden punch as well as glass bowls of various drinks, including cider. The room was filled with people in bright colors, every one of them disguised by a mask. The masks were more for fun than anything else; it was not so difficult to tell who was who underneath the masks. The air was warm and smelled of spices and perfume, and it was beautiful. 

Phillip shook his head to clear it, and a soft laugh escaped his lips. Wheeler really was incredible, he decided as he moved to step to the side. Phillip was not exactly sure what to do with himself, so he moved to the table and poured a glass of cider. As he held it by its delicate stem, Phillip watched the people who came through the door, observing them to himself. There were many lovey-dovey couples, as well as groups of friends that seemed to be attending together. Periodically, Phillip would be interrupted in his people-watching by an invitation to dance. He politely declined, always returning to the watching. Cassia entered on Avery's arm, something that caused Phillip to roll his eyes slightly. The older boy only kept Cassia around in order to stare at her arse, but then Cassia hardly seemed to mind the attention. Behind them was Darya with Rowle, then Mulciber, Fawley, and Rosier. Phillip knew they saw him, but rather than approach him the two couples went to the floor, accompanied by the others. Phillip watched them for a moment, then turned to look back towards the door to watch. 

It was at that moment that his heart stopped completely. 

The girl who stood in the doorway was just a few inches shorter than him, the perfect, familiar height that left just enough of a gap between them that they both had to put in an effort to meet one another's' gaze. She was Anne Wheeler, just as much as she had always been, with her brown eyes flecked with gold that met his immediately. That familiar electrifying current pulsed through him immediately. She was Anne, with her brown hair and intense gaze and regal posture. But she was Anne in the way that Phillip had never seen her before. Her hair was pulled out of her face into a bun, but this was braided more elaborately than it normally was. Phillip assumed that this was Nichols's handiwork and that she was also responsible for the spirals of hair that framed her face. A silver mask that was just as delicate as her own features covered her nose, and her lips looked softer than ever, reminding him of how they had felt on his skin. She was clothed in a gown the same way the rest of the people here were, but hers was a deep, royal purple. Its skirts brushed the floor, and there were stones in the bodice that caught the silver light in a way that made her seem to sparkle. The neckline came higher than most of the others had, giving her a sort of regality that always was present in her posture, but now was more noticeable than ever. The sleeves stretched down to her wrists, and her hands were covered with gloves of black silk. Perhaps it did not expose skin the way that the gown Cassia was wearing did, perhaps it was not as expensive as the black gown that Darya had donned. But it was Anne Wheeler, and she looked absolutely beautiful. 

Before Phillip even knew what he was doing, he was crossing the floor to her. Anne had walked past the doorway to hover on the edge of the dance floor, looking out over everything. Phillip could tell that she was nervous as her eyes scanned the room, looking for somewhere to hide. Nichols had brushed past her and was currently engaged in a conversation with Swenson on the edge of the floor, leaving Anne alone. When she noticed Phillip's approach, her eyes widened, and he could have sworn he saw a little rose hue in her cheeks. Before she could do much more than compose herself, Phillip was standing before her with his arms at his sides, and he offered her a small smile. He was sure that awe showed in his expression, but he made no attempt to hide it. Instead, he said, "Hello." His voice was quiet, submissive as he looked down at her. "You look incredible tonight." 

Anne blinked several times as he spoke. She was flustered, caught off guard in a way that he had never seen before. "Thank you," she finally murmured, peering up at him through her thick lashes. "You don't clean up so badly yourself, you know." 

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, and he saw a spark of pleasure flash in her eyes. Slowly, he found himself reaching forward slightly with his hand, taking a step towards her so that the distance between them was almost closed. His hand brushed hers, and as he looked down at her, she caught her breath. She did not let it go as he slowly laced his fingers with hers, his heart hammering. There was no trace of a smile on either of their faces now, only held breath and hopeful glances. Phillip half expected her to pull away, but... After a moment her slender, gloved fingers entwined with his willingly. The cool of her touch was enough to force Phillip to hold back a blissful sigh. Instead, he leaned forward. Every one of Anne's muscles seemed tensed as his lips neared her ear, nearly brushing the skin as he softly whispered, "Dance with me?" 

Her hand around his tightened ever so slightly, but then her lips were moving. "You said that I deserve one night, Phillip Carlyle. If this is my night, then dance with me." Her voice was quiet, commanding, and it was enough to cause Phillip to melt into her a little bit more. 

Phillip did not care that he could feel stares as he placed his other hand on her waist and gently tugged her to the dance floor, where the other students were swaying to the song. He made sure to keep his touch respectful, but he still felt her shiver slightly as his hand settled there. She slowly removed her hand from his in favor of wrapping her arms around his neck, and carefully, Phillip placed his other hand on her waist. Her breath was warm against his neck, and it was all Phillip could do not to think about how easy it would have been to close this distance. They swayed together to the music, and Anne proved to have an excellent sense of rhythm as they moved together. 

"Are you... Humming?" he asked softly after a moment of dancing, amused. 

"So what if I am?" she retorted, looking up at him with an eyebrow raised. 

"Nothing of it, I just... You don't seem the type," he admitted, and the little smile did not fade. 

Her arms relaxed slightly around his neck, and he could tell that she was a bit more comfortable, that she had stopped thinking about exactly what they were doing. She had given herself one night, one moment, in which she did not think about the things that forced them apart. "Well, things aren't always as they seem," was her simple reply. Her gaze became dreamy and slightly unfocused as she gazed over his shoulder for a moment. "I love music... Records, mostly." 

"Records?" 

"A Muggle device. Records play songs, when you put them on a player. They're sort of like radio, I suppose, but they have much more personality. My mum used to play them." 

He was silent for a moment, and then he found himself asking, "What happened to her?" 

In his arms, the girl stiffened. Her eyes flashed for a moment as she looked up at him, and then they softened. "She died," Anne finally murmured. It was strange; at the point in the conversation where many would have avoided eye contact, Anne maintained it with strange fervor. "Overdosed. They ruled it a suicide." 

"I..." Phillip's voice trailed off. "I suppose you've heard the words 'I'm sorry' too much." 

"You aren't wrong." Her voice was bittersweet as she spoke, but not towards him. It was more towards the situation. "But no one has ever pretended to understand that. I suppose that makes you special, Phillip Carlyle." 

"Really? Well, I can assure you that that isn't the only thing." 

It was Anne's turn to appear amused as he looked down at her. "Oh, really?" she hummed with a smirk that made Phillip crazy. He was fairly sure that his heart was flopping around like a fish. "And what else is there?" 

"Well, for one thing, I have wonderful hair," Phillip joked as he lightly spun her around. Her skirts flared out, and a little laugh bubbled from her. It was laughter that was real and spontaneous, the sort he had not heard from her in months, and it lightened his heart immeasurably. "And then, of course, I have quite a spectacular-" 

"Carlyle." 

"-sense of humor," Phillip finished, eyes sparkling. Anne rolled her eyes, but there was still a grin on her face as she did so. 

"Merlin, Carlyle. You need to think before you phrase something like that." 

"Why?" he asked innocently, giving her the most angelic look that he could muster. "I don't see what else you could have possibly been referring to."

"You know full well-" 

"Anne," he said suddenly, as something hit him. 

She paused, and when she saw that he was suddenly serious, her smile became a bit smaller. "Yes?" 

"Call me Phillip." 

His mind flitted back to the time she had made the converse request, the way that her name felt like music on his lips.

Anne bit her lip as she looked up at him, and she closed her eyes for a moment to catch her breath. When she opened them and looked up at him, he was sure he was going to need to convince her. But then, her voice was slightly breathless as she murmured, "Alright. Alright... Phillip." 

Hearing his name come from her lips in a voice that was clearly gasping for air caused a little thrill of warmth to rise in his chest. Phillip wondered if there was a phoenix in his abdomen, flapping around and setting his insides on fire. Maybe it would burst out of him, spill over in a wave of energy. "Thank you." It was his turn to be breathless, and then her hand was slowly rising from around his neck to his cheek. 

"Phillip," she repeated, and this time, her voice was a bit stronger. Still, it was quiet, meant for the both of them. But now, her eyes were blazing with the same fire he felt, and there was steel in her voice when she said it again. "Phillip." 

A little laugh escaped him, and then his own hand was rising from her waist to the small of her back. "Anne, I-" 

"Phillip." 

The voice that called his name this time was not quiet, did not hold any fire. Instead, it rushed over him like a river of icy water, pouring down him in rivulets and chilling him to his core. Phillip's hands tightened slightly around Anne's waist, and her own hand dropped from his cheek as she turned to find the source of the voice a moment after him. Her eyes widened in horror when she saw them, and suddenly the hand that had been on his cheek was lacing with his again. This time, there was nothing tentative about it. It was desperate, terrified, and Phillip knew that if he looked down at her knuckles they would be white. His would be the same. 

Because standing before them, clad in a tuxedo and a gown of the snowiest, purest white, were Phillip's parents. 

His father stood a bit taller than Phillip, and his eyes were narrowed as he beheld his son and the girl whose hand was locked with his. The auburn-haired woman by his side pulled what appeared to be a stole tighter around her shoulders, staring at them in horror. 

"Mother, father," Phillip replied coolly, making sure to lift his chin and to keep his voice calm. He drew from the strength and composure of the girl at his side, the girl who had managed to arrange her face into an expression of calm, though he could see the dread and sickening terror in her eyes. "I didn't expect to see you here." 

"Clearly," Arthur Carlyle hissed, drawing himself to a fuller height. 

"Board members were invited to attend, Phillip," Charlotte Carlyle interjected, fanning her face. "We were hoping to surprise you. But you seem to be the one intent on surprising us." 

"What is this?" Arthur demanded, and Anne's grip tightened around his. 

"This is exactly what it looks like," Phillip said firmly. "Mother, Father... This is Anne Wheeler." 

* * *

 

~~ _**//If you are uncomfortable reading the mature content mentioned in the summary, stop reading here. It's a bit of a cliffhanger, yes, but a summary will be provided tomorrow at the beginning of the next chapter.//** _ ~~

* * *

 

Anne blinked several times and seemed to struggle to catch her breath. She swallowed and then looked up at them, but there was a humiliation in her eyes that Phillip wished he could erase. She expected hatred, she expected prejudice. 

And that was what she was going to get. 

"Phillip, you have made poor choices before," his father said. His voice was a quiet frost, and his eyes mirrored his tone. "But this? This is where we draw the line." 

"Are you determined to humiliate us?" his mother demanded, her voice horrified. "Not only putting on such a public display with some... some half-baked girl, but with a Mudblood as well?" 

Phillip's heart sank in horror, and his gaze flickered to Anne. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her mouth opened and shut several times as if she was going to speak. finally, she pursed her lips together and swallowed, opening her eyes. "Anne-" Phillip quickly attempted, but then she was pulling her hand free of his calmly. There was a hollow emptiness in her eyes that caused Phillip's heart to ache. He made to grab for her arm, but she was turning to walk away from him. For a moment, her walk was calm and composed. "Anne!" he called, and that seemed to be the final straw. Anne began to run, lifting her skirts as she fled the room. The crowds parted easily, and Phillip saw satisfied gleams in the eyes of the people he had once called friends as he turned back to his parents. 

"How... How dare you," he murmured dangerously, and Phillip was sure that his eyes were on fire. 

His mother placed her hand over her heart. "Phillip, I was only-" 

 _"How. Dare. You."_ Phillip felt anger rearing its head in his chest, and he clenched his fist as he turned to them. 

"Don't take that tone with us," his father warned quietly, viciously. He could tell there were people straining to hear their argument, but his father would never be heard over the music. "You know what will happen when the Dark Lord finds out about this, if he hasn't already. You could be signing your death warrant, all for some teenaged skank with blood as dirty as it comes-" 

"Don't talk about her like that!" Phillip burst, his eyes narrowing. "I don't give a damn what the Dark Lord finds out, not anymore. I'm not your puppet or plaything, I'm not your child sacrifice. Do what you want, but I'm of age now. I don't want your money or your family name. Maybe you think it's pure, but all I see when I look at our family tree is death and violence and blood money. I don't want any part of that, not anymore. The Dark Lord can come after me if he wants, so be it. But I'll die fighting to make sure that he never sees a breath, to make sure that he never touches Anne Wheeler. I'd rather die than be associated with you." 

There was an awful silence as Phillip turned on his heel, and by then the music had stopped. The whole hall was silent as Phillip began to run as well, leaving his parents gaping like toads as he fought to catch up with her, the girl who had asked to be his Cinderella all those days ago. It seemed almost funny now, that he was pursuing her that way, that her request had come true in a terrible, twisted way neither of them could have imagined. It was amusing in the way that everything was when your world was falling apart, when you couldn't stop the panic from flooding in. 

When you couldn't stop falling in love with Anne Wheeler, and you needed to tell her before you lost her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //So for all of those who skipped, basically Phillip's parents did what they did in the movie and Anne left. Phillip is currently chasing after her, and that is where we will pick up next chapter. Thanks so much for reading!


	17. The Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> //I've been building up to this one here for a long time. You should all know that this is the "Rewrite the Stars" chapter of this fanfic, so I think you all know where it'll be taking place if you've been paying attention. ;)

[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD)

**Song of the Chapter: "** [ **Rewrite the Stars** ](https://open.spotify.com/track/65fpYBrI8o2cfrwf2US4gq) **"** **from The Greatest Showman**

* * *

The night air was freezing as Anne crossed the grounds, still running. In her hands were the heels that she had borrowed from Nichols, the ones that had made it much too hard to run until she pulled them off. Her feet were bare as she ran, and Anne's toes burned with the cold as she followed the path that led her down to the Quidditch Pitch. The cold only caused her to run faster, since she was trying to keep her feet off of the cobblestones as much as possible by taking long strides.

There was a broken, shattered feeling in Anne's chest as she ran, one that was thick with humiliation. She had never been this girl, the one who ran. Maybe that was what the princess always did in fairy tales, but it was not what Anne did, and she loathed the feeling. Still, it was better than staying... Than feeling the way that the Carlyles looked at her, like she was something they had found growing at the bottom of the Black Lake. For a moment, she had almost believed that she was the scum they saw her as, and that was what scared her more than anything. 

As Anne approached the Quidditch Pitch, she suddenly felt as if she could breathe again. Half of her hair had fallen free of her bun, except for the portion that had been braided back. The result was that her hair was half up and the elaborate style and half a mess of curls, the ones that never stayed tame unless they were held back by Anne's firm styling. She felt absolutely absurd in the violet dress, as if she was some sort of imposter. This was the sort of dress that Darya and Cassia wore... Anne Wheeler wore old Ravenclaw robes and yellow work uniforms, and that was how it had always been. She was comfortable in such clothing, and it had been stupid to think that she might leave those things behind for one night. Why should Anne foresake comfort for a moment of pretend?

For a moment, Anne froze on the path between the Quidditch Pitch and the locker rooms. Finally, she turned and entered the locker rooms, fighting the urge to begin taking off the dress then and there. As soon as the door was closed, she began to unzip the fabric, desperately pulling it over her head until she was left in her undergarments. Anne fought to grab the Quidditch bag she always kept there, and from it she retrieved a pair of leggings and a dark shirt that covered her arms. She would be chilly, but Anne did not care. 

All she needed right now was to get into the air. 

Anne was fighting to pull on her too-small trainers when she heard the door to the locker room open, and she did not look up. Instead, she struggled with the laces on the one shoe she had on, catching her breath. He spoke after a moment, and his voice caused her to tie the knot on her shoes with much more aggression than was necessary. "They don't matter."

Anne ignored him for a moment and reached for the other shoe as he approached. Before she could take it, she saw the leather tops of his fine dress shoes, and he was kneeling in front of her with her shoe in his hand. Anne did not look at him, only let out a slight scoff as she reached to take the shoe back. He let her have it, but reached for her other hand. Immediately, Anne pulled it back, and she shot him a warning glance. 

That was a mistake, because when she looked up at him, she saw his eyes that seemed to be pools of sadness. Phillip Carlyle was far too close, close enough for her breath to taste like pine and her heart to be fluttering like some caged bird. His hair was a disheveled mess from running after her, and his tie was long gone. She could see that his fine tuxedo coat had been discarded carelessly on the floor beside him. The result was that he was left in his crisp white dress shirt and pants. He was looking at her like she was some sort of kicked puppy, something worthy of pity. She only blinked, swallowing again as she moved to lace the shoe. 

"They don't know anything, Anne," Phillip murmured, and his voice was so soft and earnest that she thought it might break her. "I don't understand why... What they said to you was horrible, I know that. But I don't understand why someone like you, someone so incredible... I don't know why you listen." 

His words sent her heart racing, and for a moment, Anne looked back at him. She had been reaching for her gloves, which were black and slightly scratchy as she held them in her hands. She made no move to put them on. Instead, Anne said, "You won't ever understand."

He visibly flinched, but Anne continued. "You won't, because you haven't ever had someone look at you like you're nothing, think of you like you're nothing. And if we were together, everyone would look at us that way-" Her voice broke, and the pure idea of someone looking at Phillip Carlyle like he was worthless caused her stomach to recoil. She could practically feel the gazes, angered and disapproving, on her skin now, leaving her nowhere to hide. "Everyone would look at  _you_ that way." 

Her voice had been raw, breathy as she spoke those words, and then suddenly Anne could not stand to let him look at her that way any longer. She rose to leave the locker room, tugging on her gloves as she left. From behind her, he spoke, and it took everything within her not to freeze. "Maybe I don't care." 

Anne let out a soft breath of bitter amusement as she left the locker room and stepped into the night air. She let the door swing shut behind her, but before it could close, he was following her. "Maybe I don't want to hide anymore, Anne Wheeler. You know that I want you, and I know that you want me back, because you told me. You told me, Anne." 

Her whole body froze for just a second, but then she shook her head and began to move towards the broom shed. She yanked open the door and gripped her broom in hand, turning abruptly to face him. He was much closer than he had anticipated, and for a moment she almost stumbled into his chest. They were inches apart for a moment, and just when it seemed like he might lean forward, she quietly said, "I know. I remember." His eyes widened, but Anne took advantage of that moment of surprise to pull away and brush past him. He remained there for a moment before turning with wide eyes. 

"Then why... Why have you been playing this game?" he asked breathlessly as Anne stepped onto the Quidditch Pitch. The shining sand beneath her was different than she was used to; the whole Pitch had been changed by their decorations.

Anne did not answer his question until she had come to the center of the ring. She spoke as she focused on giving her broom a once-over, making sure that nothing was out of place. "Because it doesn't matter. We can't be together, even if that's what I want." 

"And why not?" he demanded. Phillip began to walk towards the Quidditch Pitch with hope in his eyes and conviction in his voice. "Don't tell me it isn't that easy, I know that. I know that there isn't room in people's minds for us yet. But that's something that happens after, and it's something that we can deal with. What if we stopped thinking about what might happened and just tried?" 

Anne shook her head, trying to ignore the racing of her heart as she tried to straighten out a few twigs in her broom's tail. However, she heard the footsteps on the sand behind her, and suddenly he was speaking beside her ear. "What if I said that I love you?" 

Anne's whole body stiffened, and she took hold of her broom and turned, but he gently took hold of her elbow so that she was turning towards him. Her heart hammered, and everywhere he touched her felt electric. Still, she fought to keep her face straight and slipped under his arm instead, but before she could take off his hand was lightly resting on her waist to bring her to him again. 

"Because I love you, Anne Wheeler, I do," he murmured, and then suddenly his hand was rising to her cheek. Anne's whole body was tingling as he spoke the words, so close that she could taste them. "I love you, and I want to be with you. I don't care what people say or how they look at us, I just want to have a chance to stand together. There won't ever be a perfect time, so why not now? Why not do this, make something good in the middle of all of this chaos?" 

Anne looked up at him, at the eyes that blazed with passion and conviction. She allowed her gaze to soften slightly, and his grip on her followed suit. Satisfaction raced through her as she felt her broom straining towards the sky. She allowed one hand to rise up his chest slowly, and his eyes were so immersed in hers that he did not notice as the other rose with her broom. There... She had her moment. Anne gave a tug on her broom and allowed a little smirk to rise onto her lips as it leaped into action, pulling her up into the cold night air and away from him. 

Anne hung by one hand from her broom, effortlessly soaring through the sky as she carefully hooked her other arm onto it so that her feet dangled loose in the air. Below, she could see his form getting smaller and smaller in the middle of the Pitch, looking for her desperately. She took a moment and allowed her broom to stop, high up in the air above everything. For a moment, she spun lazily and gave herself time to collect her thoughts. His words coursed through her head...  _I love you, Anne Wheeler..._ And every bit of her screamed to return it. But she could not, it would be cruel to give him a false hope. He wanted to love her, and she wanted to let him. But it did not matter what they wanted, not in this war. There was no space for them, and Anne wanted more than a life wandering. 

Slowly, Anne allowed the broom to lower, still spinning. She walked on air with pointed feet, almost as though she was walking down a staircase that only she could see. Soon, she was only a few feet above him, and he stood still as though he was frightened of scaring her off. In one fluid moment, Anne pulled herself onto her broom so that she was perched on it in a sitting position, still spinning slightly. 

"You have no idea," she murmured, her voice quiet in the night air. The full moon lit up Phillip's face as her eyes searched it, intent on finding understanding in his eyes. The light only made his jawline and cheekbones seem sharper. "You think it will be difficult, but you can't possibly know exactly how impossible this is... We are." As she spoke, the broom began to spin slightly faster. She allowed momentum to carry her, hooking her legs over the edge of the broom and effortlessly positioning herself upside down.

Now, she and Phillip were inches from one another, face to face. He slowly revolved in a circle to maintain the distance, his eyes locked on hers. "You have no idea what it's like to be poor and alone in the world, in a world where you have to fight for every inch of ground you gain. These doors have been open to you forever, Phillip, and they would all shut to you because of us... Because of me. It seems easier now, when we're allowed to coexist on our own. But that isn't what love is about. It's about presenting a united front to the world, and for us... That isn't possible in front of a world that wants to spit in my face and worship you. As soon as you and I step outside, you'll realize exactly how impossible this is." 

The broom had begun to rise higher, and Anne let it carry her away from him. Her eyes were locked on him, but they did not find the acceptance that she was searching for, the acceptance she was struggling to maintain herself. She was not getting through to him, and it caused her to speak with more fervent tones than she had before. 

"You can't love me," she insisted to him, easily pulling herself up onto her broom as she did so. "There isn't a place for us, even if you do... Even if I return it." 

"Says who?" The wind carried his voice up to her, and when she looked down at him, there was a determination in his eyes that caused her heart to kick start. "Who says we can't find a place, make it ours?" 

"Your parents!" Anne burst, and she looked away from him as she shot across the Pitch. Her broom obeyed her, and she tucked herself against it to roll with it in an attempt to clear her head. "The Death Eaters, Lord bloody Voldemort!" There was freedom in letting the name leave her lips, in letting her voice carry across the stadium. "This isn't just about our feelings. If your sudden change of sides hasn't already, being with me would put you on his kill list. There already are horrible consequences for this, for the both of us. I don't want you to end up like my brother, or worse, dead! There isn't any room for hormones to make things even messier. This will pass, but the war won't wait for it to!"

"The war doesn't have anything to do with it!" he called up to her with determination. His wand was in his hands now, and he had begun to climb the ladder to the Hufflepuff stands so he could be closer to her, reach her. Every time he lurched over the edge, her heart dropped to her chest. Still, Anne fought to make sure that every move she made was graceful and decisive, as if she did not panic every time it seemed like he might fall.

Soon, he was leaning over the edge of the stands. There was a sort of exhilaration in his eyes as he leaned out to her, and it set every inch of her on fire. "This isn't panic or rushing into things because of the war of hormones, and it never has been. This is me saying that I love you, and I don't care who hears it!" 

His voice carried, and suddenly, Anne whirled in his direction. "Don't say it that loudly, your voice carries!" she exclaimed with wide eyes. Her heart was pounding. What if the wrong person heard him, what if his parents heard him? 

"I don't care!" he repeated, looking at her with those eyes that contained electricity. "I'll say it again until you believe it. I love you, Anne Wheeler!" 

His voice carried out over the whole grounds, and her eyes desperately turned back towards the castle that loomed in the distance. She did not see any figures in the gardens, but she was far away. Any number of people could have heard. "Phillip," she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of panic and exasperation as she turned to face him. Suddenly her broom, which had been so intuitive her whole life, shot forward just enough to bring her close to him. He still leaned out, and now the handle of her broom almost touched his chest as their noses brushed. Her had roared with blood as everything else faded out, and then she was looking into the blue eyes that held the whole sky. 

Maybe the reason Anne had not been able to feel the peace she felt from flying in the skies lately was because his eyes had stolen them from her.

In his irises she saw the periwinkle of a clear day, the gunmetal grey of storm clouds, the deep midnight blue of the sky tonight. Anne could not catch her breath, and a slight smile crept onto his lips as he looked into her own irises, which she imagined were dreadfully boring compared to his. How could he want her, he who could have had anyone? Could she possibly make him feel the way that she felt right now? "Phillip," she found herself murmuring again as the addicting scent of pine and cinnamon stole her breath again. 

His hand rose to her cheek, and he gently brushed it with his fingertips. When she said his name, a soft, blissful breath left him. "Say it again?" he implored, his eyes fluttering shut. 

Her hand reached out from where it sat on the broom, and it gently cupped his cheek. Her lips were moving before she could even think to give them permission. "Phillip." They wanted to say more, and she wanted to let him... But not here. A little smirk played with the edge of her mouth as she repeated the name. "Phillip... Hold on." 

The hand grabbed for his arm, pulling him forwards. Phillip's eyes shot open in surprise as she tugged him over the edge of the Hufflepuff stands, and his mouth flew open. The way he had done so many months ago, she guided his fall so that he landed on her broom, shooting forward so he landed behind her. His hands shot to circle her waist, holding her close as though she was his lifeline. From behind her, she heard a ragged gasp as she took off, shooting forward so that they were soaring up to the roof of the teachers' stands. The shingled overhang gave them the best vantage point of the Pitch as Anne pulled up to it, forcing her broom to a stop at its highest point. There, she easily stepped down, pacing away from him. 

Phillip was clearly breathless as he too stepped off the broom, allowing it to remain hovering in the air. "What-" 

"I love you too." The words were torn from her lips as she faced away from him, and he immediately stopped talking. "I love you, Phillip, and I want you." 

There was a moment of silence that stretched between them, and she heard the sound of his footsteps. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt his hands meet her shoulders, gently turning her to face him. "Anne..." 

"I want you." Saying it was like opening floodgates. Now that she had begun, Anne couldn't stop. "I love you, and I want you, and I want to say it, too. But how... How can you think that there's room for this, for us? How can we think that we can make this work in the middle of a bloody war?" 

"People have done it before, they'll do it again," he murmured, and his eyes didn't leave her face. "This isn't the first war, Anne. It doesn't change the fact that I... I was made to be yours." Anne could not look away from him. "All we need to do... All _you_ need to do is say the word." 

His words made her shiver, and for just a moment, Anne almost relaxed into him. They made sense, they did. Her hands moved up to gently ruffle through his hair, and he leaned into his touch as though it was a subconscious movement. Her whole body yearned to press against his, to embrace him and say yes. But then she could hear the words again in her mind.  _Half-baked Mudblood..._ That was what she was to people in his circle, that was how he was supposed to talk about her. She knew he never would, not if they were together. Not even if he needed to do so to keep his life. 

And if they were together, she could cost him his life. 

Anne froze, and then she pulled away. Phillip did not move, but something in his eyes broke as he looked down and watched her remove herself from his grasp. "I want to," she breathed softly as she extricated herself from him. "But Phillip... This could cost too much. I'm not willing to lose you. Our hands are tied." 

"Anne-" he whispered, but she did not listen. Instead, she swallowed and blinked several times, turning to leave. Easily, effortlessly, she slid down the pole beneath the overhang, and then she began to walk down the stairs. Phillip did not follow, only stood in the silence on top of the overhang as she turned to walk down of the stairs and off the Pitch with a heavy heart. 


	18. The Brewing Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> //WARNING: There is a mention of rape in this chapter. I will mark before and after again. This fic is going to get continually darker, because this is a war and war is brutal. I will continue to tag things, but if you are not comfortable with very dark themes and occurrences, then I suggest taking a step back and considering whether or not you want to continue reading. I will not be offended if you choose not to. Thank you so much for being incredible people who know themselves and their limits.

[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD)

**Song of the Chapter: "[Smile](https://open.spotify.com/track/6fs3GbtJ3PCf0uYX2MlmG4)" by Mikky Ekko**

* * *

Telling Anne Wheeler that he loved her had been one of the easiest and most difficult things that Phillip had ever done, all at once. 

Every touch, every word that they had shared on the Quidditch Pitch seemed to be burned into his mind, and even if he had wanted to, Phillip could not forget them. The places her skin met his skin burned with something that he had never felt before, and the addicting scent of her hair seemed to cling to him long after she left him. But the thing that really followed Phillip everywhere was the sound of her voice, breathless on the night wind as she admitted that she felt the same. 

She remembered, she had told him. She remembered returning to the Common Room late at night, kissing his neck as if it was the one thing that she had been made to do. She remembered telling him that she wanted him and hearing him return the sentiment. Part of him was stung that she had not told him, but the other, larger part was thrilled. This meant that not only did she remembered, but what she had spoken to him that night was important enough to her that she had found it necessary to conceal it. It meant that she had meant it and that he had the same effect on her that she did on him. 

And even though she remembered him, even though she loved him, she was still holding back. 

Anne was terrified, that was the best way that Phillip knew how to describe it. The morning after the dance, and all those following, he saw the fear in her eyes when she looked at him. The looks were rare, of course; Anne was making every effort to make as little contact with him as possible. Phillip did not know what else to do, except to let her. He had chased her, he had told her everything he could. She knew how he felt and that his feelings weren't going to change. It felt wrong to push past that. All that was left for Phillip was longing glances when he did not think she could see him. 

Every once in a while she would look up, and their eyes would meet. In her brown irises he would see something stirring, but every time it was quickly consumed by fear, and she looked away. 

If Anne had not been throwing herself into school before, she was now. When she was not working on the massive essays their N.E.W.T. professors were assigning, she worked on the curriculum for The Underground Warriors. 

Somehow, they managed to put aside what had happened for the sake of the younger students. They did so by avoiding talking with one another as much as possible in a professional manner before the students and focusing more on the task at hand. At first, it was difficult, especially when it was just the two of them. The first time that they had gone to the Room of Requirement to see what it would give to them, it had been too difficult not to watch Anne's face light up when she saw the stacks of books on defensive magic and spell theory. The room was massive, with lots of open floor space, and there was a single raised dais at one end that Phillip could tell they would be teaching from. The silence between them had been overwhelming, and when she turned to catch him staring, the pain in her eyes was enough to cause a lump to form in Philip's throat.

However, teaching together was surprisingly easy, especially with their steadily swelling amount of students. The first meeting in the Room of Requirement was long, with most of it being spent with Wheeler teaching the students how to enter the room by themselves. When they had been there, however, there had been something awe-inspiring about it. There were almost fifty or sixty students present now, a mixture of houses and ages. All had been standing before them with a thorough understanding of what they were doing, from the youngest First Year to the most experienced Seventh Year.

They had begun small, with Disarming Charms. First, they took half an hour to teach the theory of the spell, including the incantation and the wand movement. Then, They had formed two lines. In each line, the people opposite one another took turns disarming one another. It was a rather treacherous working environment, it was true. As Phillip and Anne walked around the room supervising the students and avoiding one another, several rogue wands flew towards Phillip's face. This really became more of a problem in the later half of class, when the students got the hang of things. In the beginning, only a few older students were able to successfully disarm one another. For others, the wands would only give one stubborn jerk when the spell was cast upon them, or some would do nothing at all. 

There had been a few little meltdowns, mostly among the younger students who could not get the hang of the spell. That was where Phillip allowed Wheeler to step in. He did not know how, but she had an innate knowledge of the most common errors among the students, whether it was something theoretical or emotional. It was strange,but the Head Girl understood the personality and flow of magic, and she knew how to explain it the way that she had when she had taught him how to create a stronger Patronus. Her magic was inborn, and he did not know how anyone could even pretend that it did not run in her veins the same way it did in his. 

Her innate understanding of magic was just one of the many things that took his breath away. 

The Underground Warriors was the greatest source of Phillip's comfort over the coming weeks, especially when all that he could feel anymore was cold. The darkness was coming closer, pressing against him and drawing away all warmth. Anne and Phillip had needed to break up several shouting matched in the hallways, something that was much more exhausting than it should have been. It left Phillip with an aching in his chest, watching the students of the school that he loved turn on one another like animals. He did not know what Anne thought about him, not anymore... Not now that they were barely speaking. But he could see the way her walk was changing, as though she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

He hated seeing her walk with her shoulders slightly hunched. When he saw her like that, all that he could think about was the confidence with which she flew, miles into the sky. And yet somehow, on the ground, she seemed to be dying slowly, and there was nothing that he could do to stop it. 

Several weeks later, Phillip's days had been blending together into one jumbled mess of the same thing. It was almost the end of January, and the time of year that had once always heralded a giggling sort of excitement for St. Valentine's was cold and numb as the rest of the year. Phillip felt like he was drowning in slow motion, with the one thing that he knew would warm him a few doors over and yet somehow still out of his reach. Phillip woke at seven in the morning that Monday, looking into the mirror and being met with his own face. Somehow, the color seemed to be leaving everyone, lately. Perhaps it was the increased presence of dementors, which the Ministry seemed to be unable to control as of late. The students were permitted on the grounds, but going anywhere near the Forbidden Forest was prohibited. Hogsmeade was under extra security as well, but the mist seemed thicker everywhere, and the cold outside was more than just a temperature. 

Phillip let out a quiet sigh as he washed his face, then moved to step away from the mirror. Anne would not be down that morning, he knew. She was waking up much earlier than necessary in order to be prepared for the day, and he knew it was so that she did not have to speak to him. He would have suggested scheduling times or something of the sort, but that just sounded even more ridiculous than ever. 

When Phillip left the Common Room and began on his way to the Great Hall, he was expecting much the same events as every other morning for the past several weeks-- trying to cheer up the younger students a bit, putting on a smile that did not stem from any true warmth. Things certainly began that way, at the very least, as Phillip forced himself to keep a straight posture despite his tired muscles. However, there was proven to be an immediate discrepancy in the form of shouting from the hallway up ahead. Phillip's eyes narrowed as he peered through the crowd of students, and what he saw caused his blood to run cold. 

Phillip began to run towards the clustered ring of students ahead, tugging his wand from his pocket. "Stop this!" he shouted, but his voice could barely be heard over the sound of wands firing loudly. Colored jets of light shot through the air from the tips of peoples' wands, and students were clustered around the main aggressors, watching. What had they become, he found himself thinking, that instead of doing anything, they just watched? Phillip could make out three main fighters. One was a tall and reedy Ravenclaw boy and the another a stout Slytherin... These duels were the most fearsome, even more so than any other house combination; the ruthless, resourceful nature of the Slytherins paired with the quick and creative spellwork of the Ravenclaws was a deadly combination. However, these fighters were not the cause of the chill that tore down Phillip's back. That was caused by the third figure, because Phillip would have recognized the slender, agile figure of the duelling Anne Wheeler anywhere. 

"Someone fetch Professor Lutz!" he heard her voice over the noise of the duel. Now, Phillip could see what she was really doing. Anne was struggling to break up the fight as well, but the two duellists were moving too quickly for her to get up a shield charm between them that lasted more than a few jinxes. "Don't just stand there like gaping idiots!" 

Her words seemed to knock sense into a trio of Hufflepuff girls, who immediately turned and ran to the Hall, where Phillip knew they would find Professor Lutz. They would get there before he ever could, so all that Phillip could hope to do was help Anne break things up. He immediately shoved his way into the center of the circle, aiming a shield charm of his own into the mix. Anne glanced up at him with wild eyes, seemingly anticipating another character that she would have to subdue. For a moment, as he looked into those dark irises, Phillip was reminded of their first night as Head Boy and Girl, when they had met in the middle of the fray. She quickly looked away from him and turned back to the group of students. 

"You get the one near you, and I"ll get the Ravenclaw!" Anne called to him. Phillip let out a nod, inhaling as he quickly began to search with his eyes to locate the Slytherin. Through the smoke, he saw the student raise her wand. Before she could cast another spell, Phillip cried out,  _"Stupefy!"_ A jet of light burst from the end of his wand and propelled the student backwards. He raised his want, planning to cast a  _Petrificus totalus_ spell on the student before they could rise again. 

However, though Anne was attempting to stop the Ravenclaw student, they were not after her. The same incantation Phillip had just used left the other Ravenclaw's lips, and the jet of light hit Phillip right in the ribcage. Before he could do anything, the Head Boy was hurtling backwards through the air. Phillip saw stars as his head slammed against the stone wall. For a moment, he could see nothing, but he heard Anne's quick calls of spells. Phillip could not make out what they were as he stumbled back against the wall-- he could barely tell which way was up. However, a moment later his vision began to clear, and Anne was making her way towards him with wide eyes. 

"Phillip, are-" Her voice broke off as her eyes met his, and she blinked several times before her gaze quickly fixated on the side of his head. 

"Is it bleeding?" Phillip's voice was breathless and sounded far away in his own ears as he forced himself to straighten up. 

"No, I don't think so, it only looks like you're getting a bump," Anne replied, reaching out to touch it to make sure it was alright. It was then that Phillip's attention was grabbed by several raised, angry welts on her skin. Something in his stomach reared its head as he reached to take her forearm into his hand. When he did so, she stiffened, and then she glanced down at the skin and winced. "It's not anything," she said, attempting to sound confident. "My housemate just got a bit enthusiastic with his Stinging Hexes is all, I'll be fine. But your head-" 

"I don't really care about it right now, coincidentally," Phillip said coolly. It was clearing, and he felt a bit better already. Something about the anger that rose in his chest from seeing her hurt allowed him to focus. "You need to get to the Hospital Wing." 

"So do you," she argued, looking up at him with intensity in her eyes. For a moment, he just drank in the feeling of their maintained eye contact, the only piece of herself that Anne Wheeler had shared with him for weeks. 

"Then I guess we'll just have to go together," he murmured, gently releasing her arm. She took it back, cradling it with her other arm as she looked up at him for a moment. Her bun was messy from the duel, and he could tell it was about to slide loose down her back of its own accord. The duel had caused her cheeks to have a red undertone, and she reminded him of the way she had looked all those nights ago on the Quidditch Pitch. "Because I will not go if you do not."

For a moment, Phillip felt hope rise in his chest. He did not know what he was hoping for... A moment where things between them relaxed for just a second, for a softening of the fire in her eyes. But then, she just shook her head and muttered, "Whatever." Then, Anne was turning and walking towards the Hospital Wing, not checking to see if he was following. 

* * *

Though Phillip had received quite the scolding from Madame Pomfrey upon arriving to the Hospital Wing, there had been no leftover signs of the injury he had received. Anne, who had been looked at just after him, did not seem to have any lasting effects either. All that had been necessary was for Madame Pomfrey to cast a few spells, and then her skin almost seemed to wash over and cover up the angry welts, leaving nothing but smooth flesh behind. Though there were no visible marks of the fight, however, Phillip could feel the tension that had caused it brewing still. 

This was different than it had been before the holiday, when it was the students' restlessness causing most of the frustration. Now, Phillip could see clear signs of the Dark Lord's influence creeping into the school rather than lingering outside the doors. 

It started when the whispering followed Avery back from holiday. Suddenly, he was a little paler, and the shadows under his eyes were more prominent than ever. There was a glint in his eyes of unspeakable things. Of all of the people that he had once called friends, Avery had been the most terrifying. The others were different, somehow... Cassia had joined largely because of the prestige and popularity of the rest of the group in the school, Rowle and Rosier had been roped in because of their parents. They were going to wake up one day, when things began to get real, and realize how much it would cost them. Avery wasn't like that... 

There was a lust in his eyes for blood that Phillip genuinely feared, and lately, his gaze had testified to the satisfaction of that need. 

Avery was the ringleader in the group that Phillip had once belonged to, having seized his power in the shockwaves that had been caused by Phillip's sudden change of loyalties. The others were still disruptive and dangerous, but Phillip noticed that whenever they did anything, it was always Avery that they glanced to for signs of approval. Darya, who always had been one to pick out the most powerful one in the room, was seen more often than ever on Avery's arm-- his left arm. Phillip had noticed that, too. Avery had been seen at the table in the Great Hall, tugging down on his left sleeve, and when Phillip went to post the weekly poster containing the coded dated for the Underground Warriors, he had spotted Avery showing off something under his sleeve more than once. When he did, Darya, Rowle, and Cassia seemed to be awed. Avery did not bask in it the way he might have done, once. Rather, he pulled his sleeve down with a sort of reverence that frightened Phillip more than his older, more childish behavior would have. 

W.D., when Phillip wrote him about it, seemed to be of the same opinion. 

 _You have to be careful,_ Anne's older brother had written,  _of people like that. They're parasitic sadists, and they're more dangerous off the battlefield than on it. There's a certain type of honor in battle, but people like Avery don't care about honor. They only want to cause pain, so they have no qualms about attacking those who can't defend themselves. They pick on the little guy, because they don't care what it says about them. They only want to get high off of someone else's agony._

That had been one of several letters in the last few weeks, and over that time span, Phillip had learned that W.D. Wheeler was extraordinary in his own right. Phillip had been writing to him for advice and help, and it had been instrumental to keeping Phillip from a downward spiral. W.D. had helped make it easier to feed any angry letters from Phillip's father directly into the fire, as well as to reply with his mother's pleadings with logical arguments. They did little to sway her, of course, but Phillip could tell that his mother was not ready to let go of him as a lost cause. He had not been cut off quite yet, probably because his mother was still holding on to hope. But W.D. had been helping talk through jobs and lodging opportunities with Phillip for after his final year of school. W.D. had sent Phillip a series of long letters explaining the Order of the Phoenix to him, as well as the major risks involved. He had encouraged Phillip to think about it, reminding him that changing allegiances did not automatically come along with pledging oneself to fight on the front lines. But Phillip knew now, the same way that he had known deep down for a long time, that he could not stand idly by and watch this battle. W.D.'s counsel had only solidified him in his opinion. 

They had talked about Anne exactly once. Phillip had written below the closing of one of his letters,  _Is she alright?_ There was no surrounding context, and there didn't need to be. They both knew who he was talking about, and W.D. had been quick to respond. 

_No. But it isn't your fault._

Somehow, those words soothed Phillip's guilt just a little bit while inflaming his worries tenfold. 

Anne was running herself ragged, Phillip could tell. When he looked into her eyes all he saw was exhaustion and despair, and he knew she was only dragging herself along through sheer force of will. She was an excellent teacher still in the Underground Warriors, and her grades did not dip an inch. On paper and to their tiny student army, she looked great. But Phillip saw her, still awake into the ungodly hours of the night and rising after as little as two or three hours of sleep. She sometimes did not show up to breakfast in favor of revising her homework, and after a few weeks she began to skip meals entirely. Phillip took to bringing plates of dinner up from the tables, filled with all her favorites. She did eat a bit when he did that, but not nearly as much as she should have been. She was getting far too slender from lack of food, and her whole face seemed to scream of exhaustion when she thought no one was looking. Even her bun, which Phillip had always known to be pristine, was getting messier and lumpier by the day. One day, she even showed up with her hair in a ponytail. Still, whenever Phillip looked like he might be about to say something about it in the Common Room, she would immediately leave the room in favor of somewhere else. 

He knew she was drowning, too, and he didn't know how to save her when she refused to grad hold of any of the lifelines he tossed her. He knew, deep down, that no one was capable of saving Anne Wheeler but herself, and it killed him that she did not think herself worthy enough to do so. 

It was this he was thinking about, the same way that he did so often now, when he seated himself at the back of their Charms classroom. Professor Lutz had not arrived yet, and she most likely would not for a good fifteen more minutes. Wheeler entered a moment later, a pile of books and papers balanced precariously in her arms as she seemed to sleepwalk past him to her seat all the way across the row. As she passed him, an old quill from the top of the pile drifted to the floor. Phillip managed to quickly reach out and catch it before she could step on it, but she continued on as if she had not even seen him moving. Phillip's brow furrowed as he quickly called out, "Anne, you-" It did not matter, she brushed past him anyway and slid into the seat of her desk, staring straight ahead. 

Phillip let out a soft sigh and pocketed the quill, promising himself he would put it back in her desk later. He had expected that to be the end of it, but when he heard Avery's jeering voice, Phillip's blood ran cold. "Well, I guess it really wasn't worth it, was it?" 

Phillip carefully looked up to the boy who sat two tables in front of him. Currently, the towheaded Slytherin was turned around in his seat. Darya and Cassia, who were seated to his left, were also turned to observe. There was a sneer on Darya's sculpted lips, and Cassia had a vicious, greedy glint in her eyes as she looked at him. Rowle and Rosier watched, hackles raised. For a moment, they reminded him of attack dogs, and Avery was the one holding the leash. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Phillip said quietly, evenly. He glanced over at Anne to make sure she could not hear this, and if she had, she did not show it. 

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Avery countered. "It wasn't worth it, betraying your whole family and the Dark Lord. No one's denying that Wheeler's got it going on... But you're not even tapping that for all of your trouble. So it looks like you've signed your death warrant for nothing, doesn't it?" 

Phillip felt a cold, steely anger rise in his chest. "Don't you dare speak about her like that," he growled quietly, "like she's some sort of object." 

~~ _**Warning: There is some mature content in the next paragraph. If you do not want to read it, continue reading after the second break.** _ ~~

* * *

 

"You don't get to tell me what to do anymore, Carlyle," Avery responded in low, murderous tones. There was a fire blazing in his eyes that burned Phillip with its cold, and the others on either side of Avery seemed to be greedily drinking in the sight of their new leader lashing out at their old one. "You forfeited that right a long time ago, the same way that you forfeited the right to your life by betraying the Dark Lord for a Mudblood. Your treachery hasn't gone unnoticed, either. I have rights to your life and your death, and I swear to God that the moment you stop hiding behind this damn school I will kill you. I will kill you, and it will be slow and painful and humiliating... I bet the Dark Lord would even let me have my way with her first, too. He doesn't care what happens to a scrawny little Mudblood, and I want to watch you die knowing that everything you care about is gone. I'll break her, then I'll break you." 

* * *

Phillip was seeing red, and before he knew it, he had launched himself forward. Rowle and Rosier seemed ready to lurch forward, but Avery raised a hand. With the other hand he pointed his gleaming maple wand at Phillip, murmuring,  _"Imperio."_

All that Phillip felt now was calm, pure bliss, wash over him. There was a prompting of a voice in his head, whispering in a slithering tongue.  _Sit down... Sit down._ Everything in him wanted to... He wanted to listen to the voice, because if he did, he knew that more of the calm ecstasy he was feeling would follow. But there was an uncomfortable itching in the back of his mind, and Phillip frowned. He wanted it to go away, wanted to enjoy this feeling in full. But the itching grew more pronounced until it was a sharp pain, and then it was speaking to him as well in an insistent, small voice.  _Anne. He's going to hurt Anne._ Phillip felt confused at first. Who was going to hurt her? Who was Anne? But then, a picture of brown eyes flecked with gold swam in his mind, and those eyes widened in panic. That same panic jolted through him, followed by a determination to soothe the owner of the chocolatey irises. There was an audible snapping sound in his ears, and then suddenly Phillip was rushing back into his own mind, which had been occupied by Avery's curse. 

Phillip heard the sound of his own ragged gasp as his vision returned, unclouded by the mist that had been there a moment before. He was standing in the middle of the aisle, frozen to the floor. The faces of his old friends stared at him, with varying expression. Cassia watched with unrestrained, sadistic pleasure, and Rowle and Rosier watched Avery with a reverence. Darya, on the other hand, was frowning slightly. She knew that something was wrong. In Avery's eyes, however, there was a smoldering rage. 

"You've made a mistake, Carlyle," he said quietly, in a whisper that roared like thunder in Phillip's ears. 

"Mr. Carlyle, if you could kindly seat yourself so that I can start my class," Professor Lutz remarked dryly from up by her teaching podium. She had not realized anything was wrong... Phillip took several deep, controlled breaths as he slowly, carefully lowered himself to his seat. He did not break eye contact with Avery until he was seated and the blonde boy turned to face the front again. 

It was only then that Phillip glanced over at Anne. Her eyes met his, and a pang went through him when he saw that they contained a quiet fear that screamed louder than anything he had seen there before. 


	19. The Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> //Hey, guys. This was mentioned last chapter, but I am going to reiterate. This is going to be the darkest chapter of the fic, and it is going to contain some seriously mature content. If you aren't comfortable with graphic depictions of violence and extremely mature themes, then I suggest you skip the chapter. It will be easy to pick up next chapter.

  **//Massive shout out to @the_adorable_spiderman for helping me with this chapter immensely. Y'all have her editing to thank today!**

> [Chapter Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0PHFsZgicOmgRU6TUszDxd)

* * *

_ Phillip had given his heart to her a long time ago. He wished that she would have done anything else-- torn it up, set it on fire, crumpled it up and thrown it back to him. Just not this. _

As the N.E.W.T. students crossed the grounds to the greenhouses for Herbology, there was a bite in the wind that stung every inch of Anne's exposed skin. The walk was long, especially when she was alone, and it gave her far too much time to think. Every moment of Anne's past few weeks had been devoted to keeping busy, to making sure that there was as little time lost in the fog of her mind as possible. There was only so much she could do, however, and the lengthy walk to Herbology was one of Anne's greatest weaknesses.

As the snow crunched underneath her boots, Anne focused on the feeling of the cold numbing her toes until they burned with the chill. It hurt, but it was better than letting her mind run wild because she knew where it would go.

It would go to blue eyes that held the heavens in their depths and the smell of pine trees and sandalwood and hearing him say, "I love you, Anne Wheeler."

The sky was dark and swollen with massive clouds, but Anne doubted that they contained snow. It had been too cold for any of the thick, fluffy flakes that had dusted their shoulders all those weeks ago at the Broomsticks. There was another painful tug at Anne's heart, another sharp reminder to herself that she should not be thinking like this. They had a war to fight, and there was no room for anything else. Not when the Death Eaters were only getting more powerful with every new morning.

Not when there was a Death Eater within the very walls of the school Anne called home, one whose gaze seemed to cling to her like cobwebs.

Those watery, beady eyes belonged to Avery. They were one of the first things that Anne saw when she stepped into the greenhouse, causing her to take a sharp breath and look away. Unfortunately, her gaze quickly jumped to the nearest figure. The intense jolt that went through her when her eyes met Phillip's was enough to cause Anne to freeze. For a moment, she struggled to catch her breath, and then Anne moved to stand by the edge of the greenhouse. Stratton was saying something, and Anne fought to focus on what it was.

"--And of course, I will need a bit of help fetching the Bubotubers from Greenhouse One. Today, we're going to be extracting their pus as a 'warm-up,' if you will. You see, Bubotubers have quite the similar structure to Halwort plants-- and with Bubotubers, the solution we are extracting won't melt your skin off,” Stratton said. Anne struggled to devote her complete attention to the Herbology professor’s words.

“So, if I could get a few helpers... Hmm. Yes, Mr. Fawley, and how about you too, Miss Goldstein. We will be back shortly, and then we can begin. Anyone who needs to fetch dragonskin gloves, there are a few extra pairs in the supply closet."

Anne quickly moved to set down her bag, grateful for the refuge the closet would provide. Anne had never known any student beside herself to take the professor up on the offer since it was mostly for her benefit anyway. She and Stratton had an unspoken agreement that she was allowed to use any of his spare pairs of gloves, and, in turn, he would not call attention to the fact that Anne did not own a pair herself. She could see them in her mind's eye, located on the bottom shelf of the storage closet in the large, cracked pot where she kept the pair she used

She knew that in theory, it should have only taken her a second to grab them, but she did not want to be stuck in that room where she felt like she was suffocating. Granted, every room felt like that, but seeing Phillip stole away the little bit of breath she had left these days.

She felt eyes on her back, but they did not feel like Phillip's. She could tell now when he was looking at her, stealing glances the same way that she tried never to do. This was different, however. She had been fairly sure that the Head Boy was rifling through his bag for his Herbology book for a moment of quick review, probably since the meeting with the Warriors had gone late the night before. Anne, of course, had stayed up to do so anyway, which resulted in her getting about an hour of sleep. She knew that what she was doing was unreasonable, and she did not care. Throwing herself into her work was all that was keeping her from collapsing. So these eyes--the ones that followed her--they were not Phillip's.

She shook her head and let out a quick breath. She was paranoid. It was a lack of sleep and the constant pressure of the coming war, that was all. Those fears were not unfounded, but they also put her on edge. Besides, it would draw attention if she went back to her seat now, and she would need the gloves anyway.

The supply closet door creaked open, and she breathed in the musty air. It was a quiet room, the only part of the greenhouse built from stone. For this reason, it was cool and soothing on Anne's raw conscience. She glanced over her shoulder one last time before stepping inside, moving to crouch in front of the terracotta pot where the gloves were stashed. She ran her hands along the bottom of the pot until she felt the ridged dragonskin gloves.

It was then that she heard the whine of the door hinge and a resounding 'click' of the lock being turned.

Anne stiffened, slowly setting down the gloves. Her heart was hammering, but she chose to assume the most likely explanation as to why the door had closed. Coincidentally, it was also the one she prayed reflected reality because the alternative was chilling. "Phillip, if you think that this will change my mind-" She turned, hand creeping towards her wand in her robes. Her skin was creeping with goosebumps, and there was a slow sinking in the pit of her stomach that told her no, this was not Phillip Carlyle. Around him, her whole body tingled with warmth; he could never make her feel this frozen.

"Oh, I'm not your admirer, Wheeler," came Avery’s sneering voice from across the closet. "But don't you worry, I don't think I'll disappoint." Anne's eyes met blue ones glazed over with hunger, with a lust for pain and blood. The young Death Eater stood before her with Rowle and Rosier on either side, each leering like mastiffs ready to spring forward. The tall, burly Death Eater stepped towards her with his wand raised, and Anne's body sprung into action.

_ Phillip had  _ known,  _ Avery had told him exactly what he planned to do. Why had Phillip assumed that he would wait, that he cared for an instant whether or not he stayed at Hogwarts? Thoughts of his threats had haunted Phillip's nightmares, so why hadn't he done more than just watch whenever he could to make sure she was there, she was safe?  Why had Phillip not, just this once, done something more than watch from afar? _

Anne shot back, yanking her wand from her robes. Before it was fully in her grasp, however, Avery absently waved his own. Though he did not speak the Disarming Spell, Anne's wand was yanked from her fingers. It arched across the closet where Rosier, who was waiting, swiftly plucked it from the air. "Come on now, there's no need for any of that," jeered the blonde as he took a step towards her. Anne's hands were empty, and her heart hammered. She had not performed wandless magic since she was a child, and she’d never done it intentionally. She was defenseless, and now all three were circling her, stepping closer.

"We'll be missed any minute now," she hissed at him, hackles raised. Blood pounded in her ears, and for the first time in weeks, Anne was fully awake. There was no room for her to be sluggish, no room to hesitate. Every inch of her body was on edge, and her stomach filled with dread. Something horrible was going to happen, she could feel it. But that didn't mean she wouldn't fight it. She was a warrior, with or without her wand, and she would fight this until her last breath if she had to.

Anne felt like she was getting closer to that last breath with every passing second.

"Oh, don't worry," Avery hummed, stepping closer again. Anne fought to maintain the distance between them, but now her back was pressed up against the shelves. He took another step, and then another. Every muscle in Anne's body was tensed to hit him as he paused right before her. "That doesn't matter to me one bit."

Anne took that opportunity to bring her elbow and direct it towards his face in a sharp jab. Avery had clearly been expecting it. He jerked his wand up, and suddenly, Anne's left ankle was being dragged up from underneath her. A cry of shock left her lips as her foot was painfully yanked into the air with enough force that she heard a crack. Anne was yanked by her foot until she was several feet in the air so that her face was even with Avery’s. Her ankle felt like it had been dislocated or worse; the pain that shot through her body was too intense for her to tell the difference. Every little pull as her body bobbed shot pain through her ankle. Anne's robes were falling now, and she fought with her arms to keep them from falling down over her head. Avery stepped closer to her now, and there was a wicked gleam in his eye as his face came closer, too close.

"Do. Not. Touch. Me," Anne growled through gritted teeth. Her heart was pounding as if she was a cornered animal, but her eyes blazed as they met Avery’s. His breath was disgustingly warm on her cheek, and as he rose a hand to touch her, she let out a cry of pain and frustration. Avery gripped her jaw roughly, looking down at her. "They're going to hear, if they haven't already."

"Oh, I'm counting on it," he purred, grinning as he took his other hand and drew a thumb along her cheek. "I want Carlyle to hear you scream." For a moment, Anne remembered being in the back room of the Broomsticks where Phillip's thumb had caressed her cheekbone, and how everything had felt so right. Avery’s touch was nothing like that-- this was about possession and assertion of control. This was violence and aggression. This was his way of telling Anne that she was his, that he owned her. This was Avery clapping a collar around her neck, one that he would flaunt in order to injure Phillip

Phillip.

With every fiber of her body, Anne prayed that he was gone, that he did not know of this. If he thought this was his fault, it would kill him. The blue skies of his gorgeous irises would darken forever, and Anne feared the storm clouds would never roll away.

"It's a shame, really... You're good-looking. For a Mudblood, at least. There's nothing personal about this, remember that."

Anne narrowed her eyes. "Nothing personal," she repeated, struggling to speak with his fingers clenching her jaw. She could tell there would be bruising when he let go. If her blood was still flowing long enough for her skin to bruise, anyway. "Then let me go. You don't have to do this, there are ways out of where you are. Whatever you're planning, you're not going to get away with it. But I can help you while you're still here, where he can't touch you. I can save you from Vold-"

Before she could even finish the name, Avery's free hand yanked back and swung round to slap her so hard that her head spun. Her cheek was on fire, and a soft yelp of pain escaped her lips. That little noise seemed to put a spark of pleasure in his eyes.

"How dare you," he hummed, the serene tone of his voice chilling her more than any amount of malice could. "You're not worthy to speak his name, you filthy little whore. I don't know what ideas Carlyle put in your head, but you've misread this. We're not cowards, the way he is, and we're not going to be turned the way he was. You're attractive, Wheeler, but my head isn't turned by empty promises. Besides..." His hand crawled back to her face, gentle on top of her burning cheek. Anne's blood was cold, her voice dead in her throat. "I know how to take what I want."

Anne's eyes narrowed, and her heart pounded. It was trying to cram in as many beats as possible before her very plausible death. She did not say anything, only stared back at him. If Avery was determined to take her life from her, she would not give it up willingly.

And then, she spat in his face.

Avery lurched backward, and Rosier and Rowle stepped closer, wands at the ready. However, Avery raised a single hand, and both stopped in their tracks. Slowly, Avery drew his sleeve across his cheek. He let out a soft laugh, but there was no mirth in it as he stepped closer.

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy this," he hummed. "I'm going to love hearing you beg me to stop, Wheeler. I can't wait for you to beg me to kill you. And Carlyle will get to hear it all."

Anne felt a chill go down her spine, but she did not show any fear. "Do you really think I would give you the satisfaction?" she hissed instead.

"Oh, trust me, you will," Avery promised. With a sneer, he jerked his wand up, yanking Anne up by her injured ankle. A gasping cry of pain left her lips before she managed to squeeze them shut. Instead, she fought to keep her robes up. Still, she knew that they had heard it when they let out a handful of mocking laughs.

"Oh, dear," he exclaimed in a voice filled with mock sympathy. "She seems to be struggling with her clothes! Why don't you help her, boys?"

* * *

  _The muffled cry caused Phillip's head to jerk up, and his search for the lost book was forgotten in an instant. His blood ran cold. He knew with complete certainty that something was wrong. His eyes shot to the spot that Anne had occupied and found it empty and cold. Phillip knew, from attending classes together for years, that she went to the supplies closet whenever they needed to use gloves. The closet which was in the direction of the muffled cry._

_ Phillip was seated closest to the closet, and so he barely had to turn to look at it. His eyes flickered to the said closet door, which was shut...  _ **_No_ ** _. Phillip glanced at the seats that Avery and several of his goons had occupied. They were empty. _

_ He leaped from his chair and moved to open the supplies closet door. He turned the knob, yet the door did not open. He yanked his wand out, gasping, "Alohomora." He tried again-- still locked. Phillip felt the panic rise, and he began to pound on the door. "Anne? Anne!" _

_ "This is occupied, Carlyle," came Avery's voice from the other side of the door, and Phillip began to pound harder. "Have a little common decency and know where you're not wanted." _

_ "Open the damn door Avery, or I am going to kill you!" Phillip shouted back. His voice was raised, and the other students in the class were frozen, watching him. Several were starting to talk, but none were brave enough to approach him when he appeared half-mad. Stratton was still out getting the Bubotubers, but Phillip couldn’t leave her here… He couldn’t. "Anne!" _

_ "Phillip, I-" came her voice, and the panic therein was enough to cause his heart to stop. Then, there was the sound of a blow landing, a muffled grunt of pain. The fury in Phillip’s chest reared its head, heightening along with his desperation. _

_ "Honestly, women," Avery drawled. "They just don't know when to shut their mouths." _

_ Phillip's panic increased as he pounded at the wood, desperately trying to get to her, but it wouldn't give. He began to look for something, anything, to use as a battering ram, but all he could see were pots. "If you lay a finger on her I swear-" _

_ "Oh, don't make me promises you don't intend to keep," Avery hummed. "You don't get to threaten me anymore, remember? Besides, we're having a good time in here, aren't we, Wheeler?" _

* * *

 Anne‘s heart shot into her throat the moment that she heard Phillip’s voice, crazed with terror. Everything in her broke. She had done this to him, and at this moment with her heart pounding, she wanted nothing more than to be in his arms. No...  _No_ , there was one thing she wanted even more than to have him close. Anne wanted him to be far, far away, where he was safe from this. If she was going to die, it would have been a small gift to know that he was somewhere where it couldn't hurt him.

But she would fight, fight to keep breathing. If anything else, she could fight to make sure that he did not have to listen as Avery took her from him.

Before she could speak again, Avery gestured to Rowle. "Pin her down, and shut her up, will you? It's getting rather tiresome to deal with her."

Anne let out a defiant cry as Rowle’s hand clapped over her mouth. Rosier leered over her as he yanked at her robes. They painfully pulled against her skin, and more pressure than ever was put on her ankle. Her face was bruised, and she could feel her eye swelling from the punch dealt by Avery's hands. Sobs bubbled in Anne's throat, but she continued to struggle as she forced it down, attempting to bite at Rowle's hand.

"Oh, feisty, are we?" Avery hummed. "Don't make me hex you, Wheeler, when we’re already having so much fun."

Rosier gripped her so tightly that a moan of pain left Anne's lips. It only caused more laughter. "Your clothes aren't even off yet, Wheeler, a bit premature," Avery jeered. "Though I guess, with Carlyle, that's probably what you've learned to expect."

_ "Open the door!"  _ Phillip's voice carried through, and Anne squeezed her eyes shut. A whimper forced its way out of her lips.

Avery clucked his tongue. "You're only making her more upset, Carlyle, I don't think you're helping-"

" _ Fetch someone, anyone. Find Professor Lutz, now!" _

At that moment, when a flicker of hope ignited in Anne, Avery sneered. Rosier gripped her robes and yanked harder. The cloth ripped and cool air flowed over her exposed skin. Anne forced down nausea at the back of her throat as Rosier began to pull again, and she tried to focus through the dark patches that were dancing across her field of vision. Tears leaked from her eyes, and then she could no longer force back screams anymore. Anguished cries escaped her as the pounding on the door grew harder.

"Anne? _  Anne!"  _ Phillip sounded near hysterics, and that only made everything so much worse. Everything in her was crying out to him, and yet she desperately needed him to go.  _ "Anne, I'm coming, I-" _

Anne's breath came in distraught gasps as Rosier’s hands wandered her body, ready to tear at her clothing. He showed no restraint as he ripped her cloak clean off. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Anne was trapped. She was alone, with the man she loved on the other side of the door, just out of her reach. A few more tugs and her undershirt and pants, which she wore for warmth, were ripped from her. Anne's body was exposed to the air, and all that was left were her undergarments. Avery stepped towards her, and his hands crawled towards her hips. Another wave of nausea crashed over her.

"Oh, such a shame," he hummed as his harsh hands traveled over her skin greedily. Anne squeezed her eyes shut, trying to kick herself free. For a moment, Anne allowed her face to show fear… Avery leered at her, just distracted enough by her expression that he did not notice her free knee hurtling towards his face until it was too late. There was an outraged cry as Anne’s kneecap met his nose, and she stumbled backward.

For a moment, he paused to press a hand to his nose, which was bleeding. When he looked up at her, there was a renewed rage in his eyes, and he stormed towards her. Avery only struck her again, this time in the stomach. There was a crack, and Anne groaned. Pain shot through every fiber of her body, and she just wanted it to stop,  _ needed _  it to stop. His blow had forced all of the air from her lungs, and she could barely breathe. "Wheeler, you're rather disappointing, you know? I'm surprised you managed to twist our Carlyle's head, being this scrawny-"

A guttural scream of fury escaped Phillip's lips as he pounded at the door. Anne felt humiliation and despair wash over her. She was trapped under Avery's spells, unable to free herself and Phillip was in agony on the other side of the door.

She thrashed once more, but with Rowle holding her arms back and her legs suspended in the air, there was little that she could do.

"So scrawny,” Rowle lamented, eyes raking over her body. “Maybe that comes from having such dirty blood..."

Anne was utterly alone, in a room full of three men whose eyes traveled to places that were hers and hers alone to share. The dread that burned in her stomach danced with freezing fear.

"Oh, yes," Avery hummed. "I mean, just look at this..." Avery began to draw his wand over the bare skin of her stomach. Wherever the smooth wooden tip touched, blood welled up from new cuts. Anne's breath was ragged as she cried out, writhing, which only made him cut deeper. "No scars anywhere... She mustn't know much about blood,” He made a point to cut especially deep, causing her to scream. “Or pain, hmm, Wheeler? What if we show her what some real blood looks like?"

The pounding became more intense. Anne’s heart was beating so quickly that she could barely feel it. Avery raised his wand, and suddenly a jet of blood burst from the tip. The warm liquid poured over her. It filled her mouth, pooled in her nose, and coursed down her bare skin. Anne began to writhe with panic, finding she could not breathe. She could only choke on the salty liquid. black spots danced on the edge of her vision. The liquid filled her mouth, then her nose,  her eyes. Anne was drowning in the blood from Avery's wand, and she didn't know if she would ever be able to come up for air again. She could feel herself hyperventilating, hacking up blood. Bile stung the back of her throat as darkness closed in.

"Avery," Rowle said quickly. "I think that I hear Lutz." Anne's head spun with a thick, dark fog, but even through that, she could hear the shouting of the Deputy Headmistress while she fought for consciousness.

Avery glanced down at Anne, and one more time, his filthy hands crawled over her. "Shame," he hummed. "Until next time, Wheeler. If there is one, of course." He turned to the others. "Leave her like this. I want them all to see our little message."

Anne wasn't sure if it was just her hysteria, but all three of them seemed to push off from the ground in three plumes of black smoke. Rowle, Avery, and Rosier all dissolved into the mist and rose up, through the ceiling and out. Anne felt herself swimming on the edge of consciousness as the door shot open, and Phillip stood in the doorway directly behind Professor Lutz.

For a moment, the professor was frozen, and Phillip shoved his way past her. He was all that Anne could see-- a brokenness in his blue eyes, horror written into every line of his face. He raised his wand, and Anne felt herself lower to the ground, soaked with blood. Her eyes began to roll shut as she expected to hit the ground. The sudden shift of pressure caused Anne's ankle to throb, and she felt a strangled whimper escaped her throat.

"Shh," came the quiet, submissive voice that she had been aching to hear, belonging to the one person she did not want to see her. Phillip was there to catch her, and he gently lowered her in his arms while shielding her body from the doorway with his own. On the edge of Anne’s fuzzy vision, she could see the horrified, gaping faces of several students

It's alright, it's okay," Phillip whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. She could tell he was struggling to keep calm as he rose to carry her, gently lowering her onto a levitating gurney. When she was secure on the gurney it began to move. Phillip followed alongside it as Professor Lutz moved it. The pair appeared to be running.

"I... Robes," she forced herself to say, her lips heavy and swollen as she moved her aching jaw. "I don't..." A sob. Anne fought away the darkness, but she knew she could not hold out much longer. It was cold and heavy and crushing, the weight of her final humiliation devastating. "I don’t want them to see...to see me."

"No, no," Phillip whispered, and the tenderness in his voice as he looked at her like this broke her further. "Here." He quickly tugged his own robes from over his head, where he had a pair of pants and a thin shirt beneath them for warmth. He quickly spread them out over her body, and suddenly breathing wasn't quite so hard because she could smell pine in the air, and his robes were warm against her skin. "No one will see..." She felt herself drifting away. Phillip”s voice came from somewhere beyond the darkness, “Anne, stay with me. It's going to be okay."

"You have-" Anne drifted back, her voice breaking as she dragged her eyes to look up into his. For a moment, she allowed their cool blue to soothe her, to soak her up and bring her away from the raw and fiery pain. The eyes that held the skies now held the sea, and the gentle waves lapped at her aching skin. "Such... beautiful eyes. They're sad now, though. But still beautiful."

He gently lowered a hand to her cheek. Anne felt herself floating away, and he became more panicked. "No. No! Anne? Anne, stop, please.” He insistently patted her cheek, but the soft feeling of his touch only allowed her to sink further into his cool depths. “Anne, come back. You have to fly again, you have to stay with me. I love you, you can't-" The dark spots dancing in front of her eyes were comforting now, and they offered her an escape from the pain.

As Anne sank into unconsciousness, she was grateful. She was grateful because the deep blue eyes of Phillip Carlyle had allowed her to float away, carrying her on a current to somewhere where she would not hurt anymore.

* * *

  _She was drifting away from him, carried along through cataracts and whirlpools where he could not follow. But he would swim after her anyway, currents and undertows be damned._

_ Phillip would bring her back, or he would drown trying. _


	20. The Hospital Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who did not read the last chapter, this is a recap of the events. 
> 
> During Herbology, Avery, Rowle, and Mulciber attacked Anne in the building's supply closet. Phillip was the first to realize that Anne was gone, and he was locked outside the room while the Death Eater and his goons tortured Anne. By the time they were finished, Anne was swimming on the edge of consciousness, and once she had seen Phillip again, she finally let go.

There was nothing romantic about waiting beside the bed of someone who was not guaranteed to wake up. 

Phillip had read a lot of romantic novels, especially over the summers at his family's dingy mansion. There had not been much to read other than his father's twisted books on the theory of Dark Magic and his mother's romance novels. Phillip had favored the latter. Once, he had attempted to read one of Arthur's curse books, and the illustrations of grotesquely twisted bodies still lurked in the corners of his nightmares to this day. 

In his mother’s romances, often one half of the story's pairing ended up incapacitated at a wizarding hospital or facing certain death. Without fail, their partner would be sitting by their bedside, sick with worry, wishing their love would wake. This was apparently considered by his mother to be one of the greatest physical presentations of love. His mother's annotations always indicated that she found such scenes endearing. 

In real life, Phillip found the waiting was like hell on earth. 

As soon as they had arrived back at the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey had been waiting for them. Upon looking down at Anne, the woman's face had gone a ghostly shade of white. 

"Take her back to the table," she had instructed in a pinched, strained tone. Professor Lutz had immediately obliged, and the gurney went shooting past Phillip into a back room. When Phillip moved to go with it, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "You can't go with her." The matron's voice was not unkind, but it was firm. Like a bolt of ice, panic shot through Phillip . 

"No, I-I have to," he stammered. "I won’t leave her, I won’t let her be alone." 

"And she won't be," Professor Lutz said gently, turning to Phillip with eyes blazing in determination. "Madam Pomfrey has got her, Mr. Carlyle. She's going to be alright. But the longer that she has to stay out here to reassure you, the less time she has for Wheeler." 

Phillip swallowed the growing lump in his throat, raking an anguished hand through his hair. "Go to her, then," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Please, just go to her." 

Madam Pomfrey did not need to be told again-- in fact, she had begun to move as soon as Professor Lutz had reached Phillip. The woman rushed to follow the gurney to her office, where Phillip figured she had a table upon which she was treating Anne. He and Professor Lutz were left alone in the room. 

The professor looked down at him with sad eyes. "Carlyle, let's get you away from all this and cleaned up," she murmured softly. Phillip looked down at his bare chest, which had several smears of blood from where it had soaked through his robes when he caught Anne and carried her. The blood was drying on his arms, and he could feel a few streaks on his face. It could not have all been hers, could it? 

"No," he snapped. "No. I'm not leaving." Phillip scanned the room for some place to sit.He realized that his knees were shaking from exhaustion. They would support him a while yet, however, and he would not rest until he had to. 

Professor Lutz did not seem surprised or offended by his tone. Instead, she raised her wand and waved it, and the blood that was stuck to his skin began to peel away. Phillip watched with a lump in his throat as it did. Was it really that easy to erase all traces of Anne Wheeler from him? What if Avery had succeeded in erasing Anne Wheeler for good? "Can I at least summon you a change of clothes?" 

"I don't... I don't care," he whispered, choking on the words. "But she's going to need pyjamas. The ones with the striped bottoms, they're blue. They look like her brother's... And then a sweater, a-any-- any sweater, it doesn’t matter--" A strangled gasp escaped him, and suddenly Phillip couldn't breathe. All he could think about was the way she had looked in those oversized pyjamas with her messy curls. The sound of her quiet breathing from when she fell asleep curled up in an armchair across from him. The smell of lilac hair, and her arms wrapped around his neck. Phillip's chest heaved as he choked on the air he forced down. Professor Lutz's eyes filled with pity as she reached out. Before Phillip knew it, he was being held in a calming embrace. 

At first, Phillip's whole body tensed in panic. There was no one in his life to do something like this for him. At his parents' hands, Phillip had known only cruelty, and stinging burns pressed to his chest from wand tips. After a few seconds, however, Phillip relaxed in the warmth. His shoulders began to shake with dry sobs. 

"It will be alright," Professor Lutz murmured in a voice that was firm and comforting. "She'll be alright, I swear it, Carlyle. Her story isn't over, and neither is yours. But right now, all you can do is take care of yourself. So I will summon what you need and what she needs, and you can just wait here. Is that alright?" Phillip nodded wordlessly, and when he pulled away, he knew that his face was a mask of pain by the way that the professor winced. “I will be right back,” she said quietly. “Be strong, Carlyle. I know you are.” 

As the Deputy Headmistress brushed past him, Phillip remained rooted to the floor. His mind raced with all of the memories of Anne, of how she had filled his life with so many things he had never known. Whether or not he opened or closed his eyes, Anne Wheeler was all he could see-- soaring on her broom, dangling from it by a single hand as if it was nothing, whispering an incantation so a massive silver bird erupted from the end of her wand, swaying with him in time to the music. 

Every moment that passed could have been an hour. No one left the office. At some point, when his legs were finally in danger of giving out, Phillip managed to stumble over to a chair. From that point on, it was just a blur of people. Professor Lutz came back at some point with a bundle of clothing in her arms. A dark shirt and flannel pants ended up in Phillip’s lap. He did not touch them, but rather stared at the door to Madam Pomfrey’s office. Professor Lutz did not attempt to talk to him, but she did not leave, either. Instead, she stayed as both Professor and Headmaster Barnum arrived, and they began a low conversation that Phillip knew he was not supposed to hear. 

“...Avery… Rowle and Rosier, all gone… Contacted the Minister, no response… Dark Mark, left above the greenhouse…” 

The words only made Phillip’s heart ache more painfully, so he stopped listening after that. 

Outside, the light began to fade into shadow. The sconces on the wall began to light with gentle flames, one by one. Bright as they were, the torches could not drive away the darkness that attempted to swallow Phillip whole. There was misery gnawing at Phillip and it filling him with emptiness. After a while he simply allowed it to wash over him. It took much less energy than fighting it. 

This was all his fault.

Avery had told him that he intended to hurt Anne, and Phillip had still allowed it to happen. Even more than that, he had let her struggle the past few weeks like she was drowning. Even if she would not have accepted his help, he should have offered it more. 

The moments stretched on, each one a new agony. The only break came in the form of the doors being thrown open part-way through the night. The sudden, violent movement sent the tongues of flame in the torches flickering erratically. Phillip’s head jerked up. He was met with the dark, even, gaze of W.D. Wheeler, who had murder in his eyes. 

All of the professors turned to look at him. Not one of them seemed to know what to say. It didn’t matter; W.D. was already walking towards Phillip. 

“Who did this?” the tall, intimidating man asked, his voice deathly low. His voice was a growl, and Phillip could see red rimming his bloodshot eyes. 

Phillip struggled to form a sentence, and when he did speak, it was with a raspy, cracking voice. “Avery, Rowle, and Rosier,” he murmured, his voice filled with disgust and self-loathing both. “W.D., I’m sorry, they… They threatened her,, and I didn’t stop this. I should have stopped this, and I-” 

“No,” W.D. interrupted. Phillip blinked. “You didn’t do this. She’s been threatened before, she’ll be threatened again. You didn’t do this to her, and I know that. You’re not responsible for any of this. You…” W.D.’s voice faltered, and he lowered his head to his hands. “You love her, too. You’re the  _ only _ one who understands.” 

Phillip stood, and before he knew it, he was embracing Anne’s older brother. It was strange, really. Until this had happened, Phillip had not known what it was to truly hold someone; to cling to them like they were a lifeline. There was no room for doubt or distrust in such an embrace. There could only be understanding, or maybe comfort if they were lucky. 

As Phillip pulled away, he could see Charity stepping towards them. “W.D.,” the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor murmured. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, I know that she would want you here.” 

“Thank you for allowing me back,” W.D. whispered. His voice was hollow. “I know that you’re taking a grave risk, and I promise I wasn’t seen.” 

“It’s the least we could do,” Headmaster Barnum replied as he came to rest a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “We’re so sorry, W.D.” 

“Don’t be,” growled the taller man, tightening his hands into fists. “The only ones who are going to be sorry are the ones who did this.”

“They will be,” Phillip vowed quietly. “I swear that if I ever see them again. I will make them regret touching her. They’ll regret making her scream.” 

W.D. was shaking as he turned away, stalking to the window. Apparently, the thought of Anne screaming was enough to rattle him, and Phillip did not blame him. The sound was one that he dearly prayed he would forget. 

At that moment, the door to Madam Pomfrey’s office opened. Professor Lutz had entered once, only to set the clothing for Anne on the counter. They all knew it wasn’t important, but it did mean something. It meant that they cared, that they were making preparations for when Anne was better. 

_ When _ . Not  _ if _ . 

At the squealing of hinges, everyone turned. Headmaster Barnum sucked in a breath, and both of the Professors seemed to be hardly breathing. W.D. sucked in a sharp, ragged breath. Phillip’s eyes brushed over the matron, searching… And there she was. 

Anne was spread out on a moving cot with wheels. Her dark curls were damp and loose, laying in a tangled mess on the pillow beneath her head, and her eyes were closed. Phillip knew she wasn’t sleeping; Anne slept curled up.. Her face was bruised, with dark impressions of curled fists along her jaw and a purple circle surrounding her eye. Her skin looked clammy, drained of blood. It had been scrubbed clean of all traces of the ominous red that had drenched her earlier. Anne’s torso was completely covered in bandages, which was covered by a light smock that had clearly come from the Hospital Wing’s stores. One of her legs was also bandaged, as well as elevated. Phillip drew in a sharp breath as Madam Pomfrey used her wand to wheel the bed into a corner. 

Immediately, Phillip was moving to be by her side. He stood over her for a moment, stunned. Half of him expected gold-flecked eyes to fly open and narrow, glaring at him for staring. In his mind, he could hear her voice scolding him, telling him that people would notice if he kept looking at her like that. But the girl before him did not move, except for the rise and fall of her chest. W.D. stood by Phillip’s side, and after a moment he let out a shuddering gasp. The man waved his wand, summoning two chairs. He carefully pressed down on Phillip’s shoulder to lower him into it. Phillip did not resist, but he did reach for one of Anne’s limp hands. In his own, her hand was cold and clammy. 

From behind Phillip, Madam Pomfrey began to speak. “Most urgent were the cuts on her torso,” she began. “They wouldn’t respond to any of the normal spells I use for binding together of flesh, and they were already contaminated by the blood that they covered her with-- not her own, of course. But it’s hard to avoid infection when you can’t close the wound. I did what I could to sterilize it and then it started to clot, once I used a very primitive Muggle method of ‘stitching the wounds-” 

“That means she used a needle and sewed the skin together,” W.D. said quietly. “It’s very effective, magic or not.” Phillip glanced over at W.D., and his desperate eyes held gratitude. W.D. clapped a hand onto Phillip’s shoulder. He knew that it was a sigh of camaraderie, of comfort and united goals. 

“-Yes, essentially,” Madam Pomfrey agreed. “Once I did that, the immediate threat of bleeding out was over. I did what I could for the ankle, mending it. Still, the fracture… It was nasty. It looks like it was forced apart even farther after the initial trauma.” 

“She was hanging from it,” Phillip whispered in a hollow voice. “They broke it, and then they lifted her by it. Every movement would have been…” 

“Agony,” W.D. finished. His grip on Phillip’s shoulder tightened.. 

“It was extremely damaged, and the surrounding muscles were agitated,” Madam Pomfrey continued. “I mended everything, but it’s still fragile, and I want to give the body time to do some healing of its own, to recognize the tissues as complete and belonging to part of a whole. I don’t want to aggravate it, which is why it’s bound and elevated. The rest I will tend to in a few hours. I want to give her body time to rest from all of the changes, as any magic can be shocking to an injured system. I will be by in a bit to check on it. For the time being, she is in a comatose state, and she will be for a while yet. When the medicine wears off, there is no guarantee that she will be ready to wake up. I can tell you that she  _ will _ wake up, but I don’t know what psychological state-” 

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” Charity Barnum interrupted. The matron nodded, getting the picture, and she turned to go. Professor Barnum turned to the other two. “No one will be coming near here,” she said firmly. “There are express instructions that no one comes through unless injured, and Madam Pomfrey will be setting up a table outside of the wing. When Anne wakes, you can tell her, and she will come to help. But until then, all that’s left to do is-” 

“Wait,” W.D. predicted, swallowing. He shook his head. “I’ve been waiting for months to see her, but this…” 

“It’s not quite what you had in mind,” Professor Lutz finished, and Charity winced. 

“I know, W.D.,” the blonde Professor murmured. 

“But it isn’t over,” the Headmaster said quietly, narrowing his eyes. “This is nowhere near over. It’s only a battle, and they will be defeated. And when they are, they will pay for this.” 

Phillip squeezed Anne’s cold hand lightly, looking to her empty face. All he wanted was for those eyes to open, to meet his. 

He wanted to tell her that he loved her, and that he was sorry, because he had done this to her. 

Phillip could hear the professors leaving, allowing Phillip and W.D. time alone with Anne. Phillip held her hand close, trying to remind herself that she was going to be alright. But what would happen when she woke up? 

This was every fear that Anne had had about the two of them brought to life. She had warned him there would be consequences, and there had been. Phillip had thought that she was worried about the consequences to him, but this was different. This was her, and she had been literally scarred at the hands of his enemies, for no other reason than to hurt Phillip. He had no idea how much had happened before he had noticed her absence. When she woke, what if she did not want to see him again? Phillip knew that if she asked him to leave, he would in an instant. He would leave her, and never look back if it meant that this did not happen to her again. But she would be in his heart, his mind, forever.

“She loves you too, you know,” W.D. said quietly. Phillip’s eyes snapped up as he glanced over at Anne’s brother, who still had not removed his hand from Phillip’s shoulder. 

His heart ached as he slowly nodded. “I know she does,” he whispered. “But sometimes, that doesn’t matter. This happened, regardless of love.” 

W.D. shook his head, and a flame began to burn in his eyes. “No.” 

Phillip blinked, glancing back up at her brother. “What?” 

“You’ve got it wrong,” W.D. replied. “Yes, sometimes this happens. But this is exactly when it matters.” Phillip looked down at his hand, the one that was supporting Anne’s limp, lifeless one. “It matters now, because you’re not leaving her alone. You’re here with her, and that’s exactly what she needs. And you’re going to stay until she wakes up, because she needs that, too, no matter what she says.” 

Phillip nodded slowly, looking down to her bruised face. Gently, he stroked a few locks of damp hair from her face. It was clean, but only for the sake of sterility.. It did not smell like her usual lilac scent, it smelled of rubbing alcohol. 

“She’s lucky to have you,” Phillip murmured after a moment. “When I used to get her talking, when she and I were still on comfortable terms, you were all she wanted to talk about. Granted, she was making fun of you most of the time…” A little, strained grin spread across his face. “But she loves you anyway.” 

W.D. let out a quiet chuckle. “I’m glad you’re in her life,” he murmured. “And I’m glad you’re on our side, because I would really hate having to hex you.” There was a moment of laughter shared between them, and Phillip knew that it could be considered disrespectful. However, he knew Anne would understand. 

This little moment of comfort was the eye of the storm, and it was all Phillip and W.D. had to hold on to. 

Madame Pomfrey came in part-way through the night to heal Anne’s bruises, but apart from that, there was little to do but wait. 

W.D. fell asleep after a few hours on one of the cots. The man was clearly exhausted from staying in the caves, and if he had a chance for a warm bed in the middle of this cold winter, Phillip would let him take it. However hard he tried, Phillip could not convince himself to sleep. Instead, he remained by Anne’s side, her hand folded between his. Every so often, he found himself feeling for her pulse, just to make sure. 

She looked so still and lifeless that Phillip could hardly bear it. He was used to looking at Anne Wheeler and seeing a girl who brimmed over with life.

He supposed that he could not blame her; he felt dead inside, too. 

By the time dawn came, Phillip was beginning to feel the toll waiting was taking on him. He still had not changed into his shirt. That would require leaving her side, and that was a sacrifice that he was not willing to make. Still, his muscles were ready to give out, and when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he looked horrible. His hair was an absolute mess, and there were dark circles under his eyes, making him look like some sort of ghost. 

Phillip let out a quiet sigh as he ran the hand that was not holding Anne’s through his hair, attempting to smooth it down. 

“I… don’t think that’s going… going to help much,” came a quiet, hoarse voice from below him. “Face it, Carlyle, no amount of gel can save you now.” 

Phillip froze, and slowly he turned to face the cot. Anne’s hand tightened around his, and though the squeeze she gave it was light, it was enough to send a thrill through his chest. His eyes found her face, and a soft gasp escaped him. There were circles under her eyes as well, and Anne looked exhausted. Her face was ashen, and her lips were visibly chapped, but they were pulled into a small smile. Her beautiful brown eyes were welling up with tears as she laced her fingers with his. Phillip complied eagerly, allowing her to entwine their hands. He relished every inch of her warm hands, calloused from her broomstick handle, brushing against his. 

“You came back,” he whispered, his voice cracking. 

Anne nodded, pursing her chapped lips. A single tear ran down her cheek as she brought their hands to hold beside her heart. A soft breath left her as she placed her other hand atop their clasped ones, resting them on top of her bandaged torso. “You stayed.” Her smoky alto was raspy, and Phillip’s heart ached as he realized her voice was sore from screaming. 

“Of course I stayed,” he breathed softly. “Of course I did, Anne… I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t…” Anne’s voice cracked, and another tear slipped down her cheek. Phillip leaned over her to brush it away. His chest was inches from hers. “Don’t you dare ap-pologize.” 

“But it’s my fault.” His voice scraped against his throat as painfully as flesh over shards of broken glass. “They threatened you because of me, to my face. And I-” 

“You tried to get to me,” she breathed. “You came, you got me out. If it weren’t f-for you, I would have…” Anne inhaled sharply. “I don’t… don’t know what I would have done.” 

“I’ll always come for you.” He felt his own eyes stinging. “Always, if you’ll have me. But after this, I-”

“If you finish that sentence, I will hex you into oblivion,” Anne interrupted with a steely whisper, a surprising amount of strength in her voice. “That would be like telling me that you want to leave now, after seeing me like…” Her voice faltered, and he watched as her tears fell more thickly. But through them, her voice was tight and controlled. “After seeing me broken and bare.”

“Of course I don’t-” 

“So if you tell me that you understand if I don’t want you here, then you’re a bloody moron.” Her voice was soft, so quiet that it brushed against his eardrums like a butterfly’s wing. It took a moment for him to understand. 

“Anne, are you saying…” Phillip could not help the sparks that ignited in his chest. 

Despite the tears, there was a blazing wildfire in the golden-brown depths of Anne Wheeler’s eyes. The heat was strong enough to singe Phillip’s skin. Her grip tightened around his hands. Then, Anne whispered something that stopped his heart completely. 

_ “I want you, Phillip Carlyle. I’m done letting them make my choices for me, because I choose you. I choose you. Because even if we both fall in this war, I would rather die at your side.”  _

Phillip’s heart soared like a storm wind as he stared down into her eyes, which were inches from his face. She was exhausted, and there was pain in those beautiful irises that he hoped he never saw there again. But he also saw love. She was drinking him in, the same way he was her. 

Phillip thought that she would be able to hear his heart racing through his chest, that if Anne looked at his bare, scarred skin, she would see it rising and falling with every beat. His other hand lingered on her cheek for a moment, tenderly stroking her skin. Beneath his fingers she was soft, damp with warm tears that he wished he could erase forever more. Anne tilted her head slightly to lean into his touch, letting out a soft sigh that sent shivers down his spine. Her eyes fluttered shut. Phillip swore he could have counted every teardrop clinging to her long lashes. His heartbeat bottomed out completely when Anne whispered, “Kiss me. Kiss me, Phillip, or I swear-” 

Phillip remembered the last time she had said this to him, the time that he had forced himself to pull away from her with every ounce of control in his body. He remembered the devastating longing that had flooded him, the way his heart broke a little bit more every time she repeated her command.  _ Not this time. _

Her voice died as Phillip immediately closed the distance between them. Brushing their noses lightly, he pressed his lips to hers.

Phillip was cautious, only pressing a light kiss at first. It was careful, as if she was made of glass, and it tasted like Anne Wheeler’s tears. Though her lips were dry, they were insistent against his as she gently returned the chaste kiss. Warmth flooded through him as if someone had poured hot coals into his chest. Either his heart was beating too quickly for Phillip to register, or it had stopped beating entirely. Time and sound stopped, falling away until it was only the two of them. 

The kiss did not last long. After a moment, he carefully pulled away. His eyes fluttered open to find Anne staring at him in awe, blinking her damp lashes at him. A dazed smile spread across her face. Then, Phillip felt her arms wrap around his neck as she pulled him in for another kiss with trembling arms. 

This time, Anne’s lips against his were urgent, feverishly moving. She tilted her head so their mouths fit perfectly, one over the other. Phillip’s hands came to carefully wrap around her as she sat up slightly from the cot. Her hands began to rake through his messy locks. She tugged lightly on the ends of his hair as her lips danced against his, and a soft groan of bliss escaped his lips and travelled to hers. She hummed softly in amusement against him, gently nibbling his lower lip. Phillip allowed his hands to travel to the damp mess of Anne’s curls. 

This time, kissing Anne Wheeler tasted like laughter and not tears. She kept one hand in his hair, bringing the other to his chest to trace the skin over his heart with light fingertips. Phillip’s head swam, begging for air, but he knew that he would willingly suffocate in Anne Wheeler’s arms if it meant that he could spend a moment longer kissing her. 

“...Carlyle, I know I said that I liked you, but that doesn’t translate to,  _ ‘I am perfectly fine with you snogging my sister in front of me.’ _ ” 

Phillip immediately jumped apart from Anne, who shot him a rueful look as he sprang back. She winced slightly as she leaned back against the raised end of the cot. Anne reached for Phillip’s hand as she turned to look at the sleepy form of W.D., who had risen from the cot across from her. Anne’s dark hair was a mess, and her lips were red and swollen while she shot W.D. a look. 

Phillip’s heart was still pounding as he fought back a pang of disbelief, gazing at her beautiful crimson lips and disheveled curls. He could not believe that these were his handiwork, that their kiss had so affected the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He could not believe that someone as incredible as Anne would kiss him, and willingly for that matter. 

“I can handle myself, thank you very much,” said ‘someone’ retorted. “Besides, he wasn’t exactly forcing himself on me. I can assure you I was a willing participant.” 

“That doesn’t make it better,” W.D. shot back. 

“Yes, well, aren’t people supposed to cut you a bit of slack when you almost die?” she joked, arching an eyebrow. 

Immediately Phillip winced, quickly seating himself in his chair as he shook his head. W.D. glared at her. “Not funny.” 

“A little funny,” Anne amended his statement. “I’m fine, W.D.” 

“We weren’t sure you would be,” her older brother scolded. “I was worried sick, Carlyle here didn’t even sleep-” 

“You didn’t?” Anne admonished, turning to him with exasperation in her eyes. “You need to sleep, Phillip.” 

“I couldn’t while you were…” he tried to force out, but his voice faded. Anne winced, and she let out a soft sigh. 

“Alright,” she conceded. “Not funny.” Anne began to scoot over, wincing as she moved her abdomen. “Here-  _ Ah.”  _ A soft moan of pain left her lips, and Phillip quickly rose and began to fix the hospital blanket around her legs.

“What are you trying to do?” he asked her, raising an eyebrow. “Other than open all of your stitches, that is?” He shot W.D. a hesitant look. “That… Is what they’re called, aren’t they?” W.D. nodded, and amusement flickered in his dark eyes as he watched Phillip fuss over his sister.

“Stitches?” Anne echoed, looking down at her torso. “Oh… I guess that explains why this hurts so damn much. And I’m trying to make room for you.” 

Phillip raised an eyebrow and waved his wand so that the cot next to her own rolled up beside hers. “There,” he sighed softly, lowering the rails so that the two beds formed one makeshift one. He walked around the bed to climb into it, offering her a small smile as he rested his head on the pillow. “Better?” She was only a forearm’s length from his face, and as she looked down at him, a gentle smile crossed her lips. 

“Better,” she agreed as she reached across the gap to stroke his hair.

“Alright, I’m done with all of this teenage romance. I’m fetching Madam Pomfrey,” W.D. commented good-naturedly as he began to cross the room. 

Phillip had a great deal of trouble resisting the urge to let out a quiet moan as her fingers moved through his messy locks. “What is it with you and my hair?” he murmured breathlessly. 

Anne raised an eyebrow as she looked down at him. “Phillip Carlyle, I have wanted to feel your hair for months, so let me have my moment,” she commanded playfully. 

“Oh, really?” he murmured with a sleepy smirk. “How many months?” 

She raised an eyebrow, though her own smile grew. “What makes you think you get to know?” 

“The fact that I’ve wanted to run a hand through your hair since the night in the Prefect’s Bathroom.” 

Her face flushed, but her fingers became gentler in his hair. “Go to sleep, Phillip,” she murmured, her voice slightly breathless. “I don’t care what comes after this, I’ll be here when you wake.” 

Anne was bossy, he decided as he hummed in agreement. His eyes fluttered shut, and he fell asleep just after the moment that he realized he didn’t mind. 


	21. The Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //This chapter is dedicated to a really good friend. @AquariusRose07 has always been there to support me when it comes to my writing, and now it's my turn to support her through a really tough time. I know how difficult it is to lose a pet, love, especially a really close one, so I thought you might like the familiarity of this story to take your mind off of things. I love you so much and am so grateful that you're in my life.

[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/0nGzQ8SD17jquQtgUbDhWD)

**Song of the Chapter: "[Compass](https://open.spotify.com/track/6o20dsWQsZjhydaq893DnE)" by Zella Day  
**

* * *

  _Anne could feel it, pooling over her skin as it ran down her bare body._

_There was blood everywhere-- in her eyes, matted in her hair, forcing its way into her mouth. Anne could see flashes through the red of dark figures, leering at her from a short distance away as she fought and struggled. Pain arced up and down her body, forcing screams that sounded more like bloody gurgles from her lips. It was pain and groping hands and despair, and this time, she knew that it wasn't going to end._

"Anne? Anne, wake up. Anne!" 

A strangled gasp left Anne's lips as her eyes flew open, and immediately the brightness of the sun streaming through the windows forced her eyes shut again. The light against her closed eyelids made them appear to have a reddish glow, she realized, and she could still taste blood in her mouth. There was a stinging that Anne realized was her tongue, and a little breath left her. She had bitten it... That was why she could taste the salty tang of iron on her lips. Still, her heart hammered, and she struggled to regain control of her breathing. 

She could feel hands on her shoulders, lightly gripping them, and after a moment a shadow flickered across the light that was forcing her eyes shut. It took Anne a moment, but in the soothing cool of the shadow across her face, she was able to open her eyes. Immediately, she lost all control of her breath, because he was right next to her and she was waking up beside him. 

Phillip's brow was furrowed in concern as he leaned across the space that had been between them. Anne realized that his cot was still pushed to the side of her own and that he was leaning across the sheets so that he was half in his cot and half in hers. He was carefully holding her down, and as her abdomen ached Anne recognized that this was so that she would not reopen the stitches. 

"Mmm," Anne groaned, peering over Phillip's shoulder to see an equally concerned W.D. staring at her. "I feel like I have two babysitters." 

Phillip visible relaxed as Anne leaned back into the pillows behind her, lightly moving to shove Phillip off of her. He released her shoulders, clearly satisfied that she wasn't going to hurt herself. Still, he reclined on his side and peered down at Anne as she rested into the mound of pillows. She drank in the sight of Phillip Carlyle laying beside her, using the deep blue eyes to return her heartbeat to normal. 

Anne had gone to Hogwarts for six and a half years now, and never had she seen anything quite as magical as the sight of Phillip Carlyle being beside her when she woke up. Her eyes greedily took in his bedhead, the puffiness of his eyes from sleep, the pillow creases on his cheek. After a moment, a slight smirk spread across his face. "Like what you see, Wheeler?" he teased as he moved closer to her, resting his head on the pillow he pulled with him. 

W.D. groaned loudly from across the room, flopping onto a cot again. Anne heard him grumbling something about 'stupid young love,' but she ignored it. 

"So what if I do?" she countered, arching an eyebrow. The smirk smoothed out into a genuine grin as Phillip reached out to her. A cautious hand came to rest in her hair, playing with the ringlets that Anne knew must have been a tangled, disgusting mess. She didn't feel clean, really... She knew Madame Pomfrey removed the blood, but that was more for sterility than anything else. "You wouldn't break my heart right now, I'm an invalid." 

"Ah, Merlin," Phillip replied, grinning at her. Their noses were close together, and Anne had the perfect view of deep blue eyes. "Right again, Wheeler. Why are you always right?" 

"Because I'm a Ravenclaw, Carlyle." 

"Ah, I see. What does being a Slytherin make me?" 

"Too damn unpredictable." 

That statement produced a chuckle from Phillip, and his hand left her hair. He brought it to her face instead, hesitating for a moment before cradling her cheek gently. Anne returned his gaze, and then for a moment, it became slightly more intense. Anne's heart skipped a beat, and she caught her breath. He always left her breathless... And now, she wasn't afraid to think of him as hers. 

"It's going to be okay," he murmured. His voice was low and serious, and for a moment, Anne found herself believing it. "We're going to survive this, alright? And Avery, Rosier, and Rowle have all been expelled, and when you go back, you've got me. We're going to finish this year strong, help the younger students. And when it's our turn to fight this war, you and I are going to come out on the other side." 

Anne's breath caught in her throat, and she moved one of her hands to capture the hand which was not on her face. "Promise me," she whispered, and her voice was breathy and soft. "Promise me that you'll never stop believing that, for the both of us." 

"Never." Phillip's gaze was strong as steel, and his fingertips, brushed her cheekbone as he tightened his grip on her hand. "Never, if it means that you'll stay with me." 

Anne laughed softly, and Phillip's gaze softened as he finally lowered his hand, seeming content to just look at her with her hand in his. "You think that after all this time, I'm leaving you?" she hummed. 

Phillip grinned, and it was then that he sat up. He had a messy cowlick that made her fingers itch, wanting to smooth it down. "No," he agreed with her. "But unfortunately, I think I'll have to be going soon. One of us has a lot of work to do, after everything that happened yesterday. And the other one needs to rest and let Madame Pomfrey look at those stitches." 

Anne groaned, rolling her eyes as he sat up. She had to resist the urge to chuck the pillow beside her at the smirking Slytherin. "Don't brag, I don't want to be stuck here. I have a Quidditch game in a few days, and I'm going to be so off my game." 

"You're going to be lucky to attend the game," came Madame Pomfrey's firm voice as she exited the office, a clipboard in hand. "I want to experiment with some charms on those cuts, a few more obscure ones. You aren't going to be playing Quidditch until we're sure those cuts have healed."

Panic shot through Anne's chest, and she turned to Phillip with wide eyes. What she found was his hand coming to take hers, wrapping it up in his warmth. He did not tease anymore, and his face was serious as he whispered, "Hey." She bit her lip, rolling it between her teeth as he murmured, "You're getting back on that broom. So what if it's not right now? You'll still be a hundred times better than anyone else when you do."

Anne laughed quietly, shaking her head. "Not if I don't practice," she reminded him. "I haven't gone a day without practicing since I was eleven and a half."

"And a half?"

"I was a dedicated child."

Phillip's other hand played with one of her curls as he leaned over, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I wouldn't imagine you otherwise," he agreed calmly. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining with mischief. Before Anne could question it, however, Phillip stepped back and said, "Madame Pomfrey, mind letting them in?"

The woman did not look up from the clipboard, only waved her wand so the wooden doors creaked open. Immediately, Phillip stepped back as the forms of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team shot towards her bed, all clad in blue and black robes and with wide eyes. Sparks was leading the pack with a massive basket clutched in his skinny little arms, up from which came a tower of licorice wands and fizzing whizbees. Acuna, surprisingly serious for once, followed as he clutched Coleman's pale hand in his own. The blonde girl's eyes were rimmed with red as she let go of Acuna's hand to come and take Anne's. Nichols appeared by Anne's bedside with such swiftness that Anne was halfway sure she had apparated, closely followed by Swenson and the others. There were cards and baskets and plushies in everyone's hands, and Anne quickly deflected several hurried questions about her condition. It was a reunion of sorts, and as Coleman fussed over Anne's bandages while Sparks clutched her bruised hand a little too tightly, Anne knew who had called them here.

There was a quick wink of blue eyes from the door of the Hospital Wing, one which Anne returned before Phillip Carlyle could entirely disappear from view.

* * *

 Recovery, Anne quickly decided, was worse than any torture Avery could have possibly imagined.

By the second day in the Hospital Wing, Anne was already going stir-crazy as she sat in the cot in the empty Hospital Wing. Phillip had ducked in whenever he could, but the incident had left him with a lot of paperwork, as well as the drama of dealing with the students' expulsions. Even when Phillip was with Anne, she could see through the dark circles under his eyes that he was not getting enough sleep.

And still, somehow, he seemed to light up when they were together. His light was the warmth that brought Anne through the recovery.

The third day of her bed rest, Phillip showed up with his arms filled with books and parchment-- her homework, which he had gone to her every professor to collect. It was a massive amount and it was overwhelming, but it was also hers and it was something to do other than sit in bed and think about all of the difficulty that was to come. He sat with her that night, and though they did not speak, the two spent the time side-by-side immersed in their own tasks. Something about the being alone together lifted Anne's spirits, and she finished a good deal of the work in one night alone, just drinking in his presence.

At night, Phillip had taken to camping out on one of the extra cots, staying beside her until morning. At first, Madame Pomfrey had been less than pleased and had made many little, jabbing remarks about her disapproval of the arrangement. After the first night that Anne woke up sobbing from nightmares, however, the matron had not been the first by Anne's bedside. Anne had a suspicion that the woman had watched Phillip calm Anne down from her office, because after that the woman was nothing but welcoming to the Head Boy, and a soft comforter mysteriously showed up on his cot the next day.

Even when Phillip was not there, Anne was not always alone. the Quidditch Team came every day to visit Anne, something that had been organized by Nichols, as Swenson was sure to point out to Anne. They often brought plates of food from dinner up to the Hospital wing and perched either on Anne's bed or on any of the surrounding cots like birds, telling her about what had happened in practice, how they had found a sub for Anne (though not one who was quite as good), about their close victory over Hufflepuff, and about the drama in the house that she had missed out on. Acuna and Coleman had gone to Hogsmeade together, according to a smug Sparks, and neither had bothered to deny the claims made by the Second Year. Anne, however, was a bit more focused on another pair-- she had caught Swenson and Nichols standing awfully close several times, and had observed the way the latter caught her breath when the former brushed hands with her. Anne did not call it out, but simply observed, happy for the both of them.

The Quidditch team were not her only visitors, either-- several members of the Underground Warriors showed up to the Hospital Wing, under what Anne thought was Phillip's prompting. The younger members showed the most enthusiasm in coming and informing Anne of the progress they had made, to the point that she had to convince one or two that the Hospital Wing was not the best place to demonstrate their newfound ability to Stun. Still, despite the slight heart attack that that particular incident had inspired, Anne appreciated it. Even though she knew it was largely Phillip's contrivance, Anne was comforted by a feeling of hope that stretched beyond the Hospital Wing. Even though she had been out of commission for nearly a week and a half by the end of it, she knew that the things and the people she cared about were still waiting for her, no matter how long it took.

By the time two weeks had passed, the stitches were able to be removed without bleeding. The gashes on Anne's torso had been reduced to pale pink stripes down her skin, and there was only a slight ache in her torso when she moved too quickly. Phillip seemed encouraged by her recovery, though he always winced when he caught a glimpse of the scars. Anne had completely caught up on her homework, and the paperwork had faded away to a manageable amount for the both of them, an amount that Anne was able to help with. That was how they spent the weekends, now, with divided amounts of paperwork that they could finish at a lazy pace. It was one of these days that brought Madame Pomfrey to Anne's bed with the news that she wanted to hear.

Phillip was silent for a moment after the words were spoken, and then he looked to Anne. She was unsure how to respond at first, unsure how to approach the tangle of emotions in her chest. All that she wanted was to be able to get out of the bed and returned to the things that she loved, like Quidditch and the Underground Warriors and Head Girl duties. But now, suddenly, there was a constricted feeling in her chest as she thought about it. this meant that it would all resume-- that panicked rush to an ending that they did not know, a battle whose date was not yet named.

Was she ready?

After a moment, Phillip glanced at Madame Pomfrey and offered a quick, "Thank you, so much. We'll be out of your hair soon."

The woman nodded, pressing her lips together. "I've grown fond of you two, but I won't pretend that I'm not glad to see you go," she informed them. "I was worried about how I'd get those cuts to heal, but this has turned out better than anything we could've hoped for. I think that, if you pace yourself, you may even be able to play in that Quidditch game next weekend, Ms. Wheeler." For a moment, Anne thought she saw warm sympathy in Madame Pomfrey's eyes as she turned away, leaving the two alone. Anne slowly set her pen down with a hand that was trembling and lowered her head.

Phillip did not say anything for a long moment, and then she felt a warm hand wrap around her own shaky one. "Hey," he murmured, and Anne drank in the feeling of his warm thumb drawing circles on the back of her hand. "It's going to be okay, Anne. I promise you. They're long gone, and the drama has died down a bit. I'm not pretending that people aren't going to be staring and asking questions, but it'll be better."

Anne looked up at him, managing a tight, slightly sheepish smile. "I'm not good at staring and nosy people," she murmured, and he grinned back at her.

"I know," he hummed as he squeezed her hand lightly, standing up from his chair and moving to sit beside her. Anne was happy to move over a bit and the warmth that his proximity provided helped to calm her down slightly. "But, luckily for you, I am. And there's no way that I'm letting you do this alone." 

Those words served to bring warmth to Anne's cheeks, and she offered him a half-grin. "You'd better not. You're not getting out of this crazy this easily." He laughed softly, shaking his head. However, after a moment, she found herself holding his hand slightly tighter. "I don't know if I'm ready to fight again." 

For a moment, Phillip's eyes widened, but then he managed to compose his face as he repositioned his hand in hers. "I understand, you're tired. Anyone would be, after everything-" 

"No," she found herself interrupting, shaking her head. "I'm not tired. I've been in this bed for weeks, and I just want to get up and do something. But... I don't know. I've given a lot to this fight, you know I have. And it took a lot from me. Maybe I'm done letting it take things. I've got what I want-- my Quidditch team, my grades, and... You. And I don't want to lose any of it." 

The words filled the empty room, and for a moment, Phillip did not respond. He did not even look at her, only peered out the window across the room from them. Outside, the sky was gray and swollen with storm clouds, clouds that contained the deep blues and purples of newly-formed bruises (Anne knew what those looked like from personal experience, now). He did not say anything, only stared at the brewing storm, and for a moment Anne thought he might not have had any intention of answering. So, when he did, Anne started slightly at his side. 

"I know the feeling," he breathed. "That's why I stayed where I was for so long. I wanted to keep what I had... Security, a family, a fortune, friends who could keep me protected." He turned to face her now, and this time, the storm was not only outside the window. It was brewing in his eyes, too, the color of foam on the top of a cauldron of Wolfsbane Potion. "But it's going to take from you, no matter what you do." His words were solemn, and they caused Anne to let out a sharp exhale. "It's already taking from you. W.D., for one thing. As long as this fight is going on, he can't be redeemed. And us... If the Order of the Phoenix loses this battle, then you and I will never be able to have the kind of peace that you deserve. You won't be able to work, you'll have to go into hiding. There won't be Quidditch, there won't be family, there won't be any hope. And I know that that's not what you want. You and I deserve so much more than that." 

Anne let out a shaky breath, letting his words wash over her. He was right, he was always right, and she hated how vulnerable she felt in front of him. "I know," she whispered, and there was a slight waver in her voice. "I just wish it wasn't left to us." 

Phillip exhaled in one sigh, and he carefully moved closer so she could turn into his side while he wrapped an arm around her. "I know," he breathed, and Anne felt a kiss being pressed against the top of her head as she breathed in the scent of his clothing. "I know. It's not fair. It's not our battle, and we're just kids. But no one else is going to fight it for us... No one else has quite as much to lose as we do." 

Anne did not expect the sob that wracked her chest, and she allowed herself to wrap her arms around him. His arms wrapped around Anne, holding her close, and for a moment he let her break. 

It was not fair... Not at all. They had not built this, they were inheriting it. It was not their mess, but they were the ones who had to clean it up, to fight for it. Maybe, when they saw the bodies of the children who would die fighting, the older generations would feel some pity-- but that was the most that they would pay back. This was their problem, but it was a war that Anne and Phillip were going to have to fight. And Anne was going to fight it, but she would take one moment now, at his side, to mourn what they were going to lose before they lost it. 

After what could have been a moment or an hour, Anne slowly pulled away from him and rested her head against his shoulder. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and he passed her a tissue before she even had the chance to reach for it. 

"Are you ready, Wheeler?" Phillip murmured. His tone was slightly sad as he gently brushed a curl of hair away from her face, but there was still a playful challenge in it, the sort that was familiar to the both of them. 

Anne looked up at him for a moment, reaching a hand up to lightly brush his cheek. He seemed slightly surprised, but then a little grin erupted on his lips as he closed his eyes, clearly drinking in the touch. This little gesture, a moment between the two of them, was something that Anne intended to repeat again and again. No war would take that from her. 

"Never been better, Carlyle." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //So, SO sorry for the wait, everyone. School came and kicked my ass right away, and I haven't had any time to update until Thanksgiving break. I was a little more active on my tumblr, so if you want to send in prompts and feedback and the like, I am more likely to see it there.


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